University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Collection  of 
Joseph  Z.  Todd 

Gift  of 
Hatherly  B.  Todd 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


Vol.  XXII 


SKETCHES  5e  5e  %  S 
CRITICISMS,  ETC. 


LETTERS  AND  MISCEL- 
LANIES OF  ROBERT 
LOUIS     STEVENSON 


SKETCHES   ie  »  S   fe 
CRITICISMS,  ETC. 


PUBLISHED  IN  * 
NEW   YORK   BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS     SE     *      1907     se 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


CONTENTS 

SKETCHES 

PAGE 

I    The  Satirist i 

II    NuiTS  Blanches 5 

III  The  Wreath  of  Immortelles 8 

IV  Nurses 14 

V  A  Character 18 

COLLEGE   PAPERS 

I     Edinburgh  Students  in  1824 23 

II  The  Modern  Student  Considered  Generally  ....  29 

III  Debating  Societies 39 

IV  The  Philosophy  of  Umbrellas 46 

V  The  Philosophy  of  Nomenclature 52 

NOTES  AND   ESSAYS,  CHIEFLY  OF  THE  ROAD 

I     A  Retrospect 59 

II     Cockermouth  and  Keswick ...  71 

III  Roads 83 

IV  Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young  Children     ...  92 

V  On  the  Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant  Places 99 

VI     An  Autumn  Effect 109 

VII     A  Winter's  Walk  in  Carrick  and  Galloway      .     .     .  134 

VIII     Forest  Notes 146 

IX    A  Mountain  Town  in  France  , 177 


CONTENTS 
CRITICISMS  p^Qg 

I  Lord  Lytton's  "  Fables  in  Song" 19? 

II  Salvini's  "  Macbeth  " 205 

III     Bagster's  "  Pilgrim's  Progress" 212 

AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY  OF  THE  CHURCH 
OF   SCOTLAND 
With  a  Note  for  the  Laity 229 

LITERARY  PAPERS 

I  On  Some  Technical  Elements  of  Style  in  Literature    243 

(First  published  in  **  The  Contemporary  Review," 
April,  1885) 

II  A  Note  on  Realism 266 

(First  published  in  "  The  Magazine  of  Art,"  1883) 

III  The  Morality  of  the  Profession  of  Letters      .     .     .     274 

(First  published  in  "  The  Fortnightly  Review," 
April,  1881) 

IV  The  Day  After  To-morrow    * 288 

(First  published  in  "  The  Contemporary  Review," 

April,  1887) 

V     Books  which  have  Influenced  Me 302 

(First  published  in  "  The  British  Weekly," 

May  13,  1887) 

THE  GREAT  NORTH    ROAD 315 

THE  YOUNG   CHEVALIER ...    375 

HEATHERCAT ,    .     .     399 

ESSAYS  AND   FRAGMENTS  WRITTEN   AT  VAILIMA 

I    The  Genesis  of  "The  Master  of  Ballantrae"    .     .     .    431 

II  Random  Memories:  "Rosa  quo  Locorum"    ....    436 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LETTERS  TO  THE  "TIMES,"  "PALL  MALL  GAZETTE/'  Etc.  451 

LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 501 

LAY  MORALS 53' 

PRAYERS  WRITTEN  FOR  FAMILY  USE  AT  VAILIMA  .     .  591 

ADDENDA 

I    The  Charity  Bazaar 603 

II     The  Light-keeper 606 

III  On  a  New  Form  of  Intermittent  Light  for  Lighthouses  608 

IV  On  the  Thermal  Influence  of  Forests 611 

V     Reflections  and  Remarks  on  Human  Life 622 

VI    The  Ideal  House 634 

VII     Preface  to  "The  Master  of  Ballantrae  "    ....  639 

INDEX  TO  THE  THISTLE  EDITION 643 


vii 


SKETCHES 


The  following  *' Sketches"  {so  named 
hy  the  writer)  are  from  unpublished 
MSS.  of  1870  to  1 87 1. 


SKETCHES 


THE   SATIRIST 

MY  companion  enjoyed  a  cheap  reputation  for  wit 
and  insight.  He  was  by  habit  and  repute  a  satirist. 
If  he  did  occasionally  condemn  anything  or  anybody  who 
richly  deserved  it,  and  whose  demerits  had  hitherto  es- 
caped, it  was  simply  because  he  condemned  everything 
and  everybody.  While  I  was  with  him  he  disposed 
of  St.  Paul  with  an  epigram,  shook  my  reverence  for 
Shakespeare  in  a  neat  antithesis,  and  fell  foul  of  the 
Almighty  himself,  on  the  score  of  one  or  two  out  of 
the  ten  commandments.  Nothing  escaped  his  blight- 
ing censure.  At  every  sentence  he  overthrew  an  idol, 
or  lowered  my  estimation  of  a  friend.  I  saw  every- 
thing with  new  eyes,  and  could  only  marvel  at  my 
former  blindness.  How  was  it  possible  that  I  had  not 
before  observed  A's  false  hair,  B's  selfishness,  or  C's 
boorish  manners  ?  I  and  my  companion,  methought, 
walked  the  streets  like  a  couple  of  gods  among  a 
swarm  of  vermin;  for  every  one  we  saw  seemed  to 
bear  openly  upon  his  brow  the  mark  of  the  apocalyptic 


SKETCHES 

beast.  I  half  expected  that  these  miserable  beings,  like 
the  people  of  Lystra,  would  recognise  their  betters  and 
force  us  to  the  altar;  in  which  case,  warned  by  the  fate 
of  Paul  and  Barnabas,  I  do  not  know  that  my  modesty 
would  have  prevailed  upon  me  to  decline.  But  there 
was  no  need  for  such  churlish  virtue.  More  blinded 
than  the  Lycaonians,  the  people  saw  no  divinity  in  our 
gait;  and  as  our  temporary  godhead  lay  more  in  the 
way  of  observing  than  healing  their  infirmities,  we 
were  content  to  pass  them  by  in  scorn. 

I  could  not  leave  my  companion,  not  from  regard  or 
even  from  interest,  but  from  a  very  natural  feeling, 
inseparable  from  the  case.  To  understand  it,  let  us 
take  a  simile.  Suppose  yourself  walking  down  the 
street  with  a  man  who  continues  to  sprinkle  the  crowd 
out  of  a  flask  of  vitriol.  You  would  be  much  diverted 
with  the  grimaces  and  contortions  of  his  victims ;  and 
at  the  same  time  you  would  fear  to  leave  his  arm  until 
his  bottle  was  empty,  knowing  that,  when  once  among 
the  crowd,  you  would  run  a  good  chance  yourself  of 
baptism  with  his  biting  liquor.  Now  my  companion's 
vitriol  was  inexhaustible. 

It  was  perhaps  the  consciousness  of  this,  the  know- 
ledge that  I  was  being  anointed  already  out  of  the  vials 
of  his  wrath,  that  made  me  fall  to  criticising  the  critic, 
whenever  we  had  parted. 

After  all,  I  thought,  our  satirist  has  just  gone  far 
enough  into  his  neighbours  to  find  that  the  outside  is 
false,  without  caring  to  go  farther  and  discover  what 
is  really  true.  He  is  content  to  find  that  things  are  not 
what  they  seem,  and  broadly  generalises  from  it  that 
they  do  not  exist  at  all.     He  sees  our  virtues  are  not 


THE  SATIRIST 

what  they  pretend  they  are;  and,  on  the  strength  of 
that,  he  denies  us  the  possession  of  virtue  altogether. 
He  has  learnt  the  first  lesson,  that  no  man  is  wholly 
good;  but  he  has  not  even  suspected  that  there  is  an- 
other equally  true,  to  wit,  that  no  man  is  wholly  bad. 
Like  the  inmate  of  a  coloured  star,  he  has  eyes  for  one 
colour  alone.  He  has  a  keen  scent  after  evil,  but  his 
nostrils  are  plugged  against  all  good,  as  people  plugged 
their  nostrils  before  going  about  the  streets  of  the 
plague-struck  city. 

Why  does  he  do  this  ?  It  is  most  unreasonable  to 
flee  the  knowledge  of  good  like  the  infection  of  a  hor- 
rible disease,  and  batten  and  grow  fat  in  the  real  atmo- 
sphere of  a  lazar-house.  This  was  my  first  thought; 
but  my  second  was  not  like  unto  it,  and  I  saw  that  our 
satirist  was  wise,  wise  in  his  generation,  like  the  unjust 
steward.  He  does  not  want  light,  because  the  dark- 
ness is  more  pleasant.  He  does  not  wish  to  see  the 
good,  because  he  is  happier  without  it.  I  recollect  that 
when  I  walked  with  him,  I  was  in  a  state  of  divine 
exaltation,  such  as  Adam  and  Eve  must  have  enjoyed 
when  the  savour  of  the  fruit  was  still  unfaded  between 
their  lips ;  and  I  recognise  that  this  must  be  the  man's 
habitual  state.  He  has  the  forbidden  fruit  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  and  can  make  himself  a  god  as  often  and 
as  long  as  he  likes.  He  has  raised  himself  upon  a 
glorious  pedestal  above  his  fellows ;  he  has  touched  the 
summit  of  ambition;  and  he  envies  neither  King  nor 
Kaiser,  Prophet  nor  Priest,  content  in  an  elevation  as 
high  as  theirs,  and  much  more  easily  attained.  Yes, 
certes,  much  more  easily  attained.  He  has  not  risen  by 
climbing  himself,  but  by  pushing  others  down.     He 

3 


SKETCHES 

has  grown  great  in  his  own  estimation,  not  by  blow- 
ing himself  out,  and  risking  the  fate  of  ^sop's  frog, 
but  simply  by  the  habitual  use  of  a  diminishing  glass 
on  everybody  else.  And  I  think  altogether  that  his  is 
a  better,  a  safer,  and  a  surer  recipe  than  most  others. 

After  all,  however,  looking  back  on  what  I  have 
written,  I  detect  a  spirit  suspiciously  like  his  own.  All 
through,  I  have  been  comparing  myself  with  our  Satir- 
ist, and  all  through,  I  have  had  the  best  of  the  compari- 
son. Well,  well,  contagion  is  as  often  mental  as  physi- 
cal ;  and  I  do  not  think  my  readers,  who  have  all  been 
under  his  lash,  will  blame  me  very  much  for  giving  the 
headsman  a  mouthful  of  his  own  sawdust. 


II 

NUITS   BLANCHES 

If  any  one  should  know  the  pleasure  and  pain  of  a 
sleepless  night,  it  should  be  I.  I  remember,  so  long 
ago,  the  sickly  child  that  woke  from  his  few  hours' 
slumber  with  the  sweat  of  a  nightmare  on  his  brow, 
to  lie  awake  and  listen  and  long  for  the  first  signs  of 
life  among  the  silent  streets.  These  nights  of  pain  and 
weariness  are  graven  on  my  mind;  and  so  when  the 
same  thing  happened  to  me  again,  everything  that  I 
heard  or  saw  was  rather  a  recollection  than  a  discovery. 

Weighed  upon  by  the  opaque  and  almost  sensible 
darkness,  I  listened  eagerly  for  anything  to  break  the 
sepulchral  quiet.  But  nothing  came,  save,  perhaps,  an 
emphatic  crack  from  the  old  cabinet  that  was  made  by 
Deacon  Brodie,  or  the  dry  rustle  of  the  coals  on  the 
extinguished  fire.  It  was  a  calm;  or  I  know  that  I 
should  have  heard  in  the  roar  and  clatter  of  the  storm, 
as  I  have  not  heard  it  for  so  many  years,  the  wild  career 
of  a  horseman,  always  scouring  up  from  the  distance 
and  passing  swiftly  below  the  window;  yet  always 
returning  again  from  the  place  whence  first  he  came,  as 
though,  baffled  by  some  higher  power,  he  had  retraced 
his  steps  to  gain  impetus  for  another  and  another 
attempt. 

5 


SKETCHES 

As  I  lay  there,  there  arose  out  of  the  utter  stillness 
the  rumbling  of  a  carriage  a  very  great  way  off,  that 
drew  near,  and  passed  within  a  few  streets  of  the  house, 
and  died  away  as  gradually  as  it  had  arisen.  This,  too, 
was  a  reminiscence. 

I  rose  and  lifted  a  corner  of  the  blind.  Over  the 
black  belt  of  the  garden  I  saw  the  long  line  of  Queen 
Street,  with  here  and  there  a  lighted  window.  How 
often  before  had  my  nurse  lifted  me  out  of  bed  and 
pointed  them  out  to  me,  while  we  wondered  together 
if,  there  also,  there  were  children  that  could  not  sleep, 
and  if  these  lighted  oblongs  were  signs  of  those  that 
waited  like  us  for  the  morning. 

I  went  out  into  the  lobby,  and  looked  down  into  the 
great  deep  well  of  the  staircase.  For  what  cause  I  know 
not,  just  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  old  days  that  the  fever- 
ish child  might  be  the  better  served,  a  peep  of  gas  illu- 
minated a  narrow  circle  far  below  me.  But  where  I 
was,  all  was  darkness  and  silence,  save  the  dry  mo- 
notonous ticking  of  the  clock  that  came  ceaselessly  up 
to  my  ear. 

The  final  crown  of  it  all,  however,  the  last  touch  of 
reproduction  on  the  pictures  of  my  memory,  was  the 
arrival  of  that  time  for  which,  all  night  through,  I 
waited  and  longed  of  old.  It  was  my  custom,  as  the 
hours  dragged  on,  to  repeat  the  question,  "  When  will 
the  carts  come  in  ?  "  and  repeat  it  again  and  again  until 
at  last  those  sounds  arose  in  the  street  that  I  have  heard 
once  more  this  morning.  The  road  before  our  house  is 
a  great  thoroughfare  for  early  carts.  I  know  not,  and  I 
never  have  known,  what  they  carry,  whence  they  come, 
or  whither  they  go.     But  I  know  that,  long  ere  dawn, 

6 


NUITS  BLANCHES 

and  for  hours  together,  they  stream  continuously  past, 
with  the  same  rolling  and  jerking  of  wheels  and  the 
same  clink  of  horses'  feet.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that 
they  made  the  burthen  of  my  wishes  all  night  through. 
They  are  really  the  first  throbbings  of  life,  the  harbin- 
gers of  day ;  and  it  pleases  you  as  much  to  hear  them 
as  it  must  please  a  shipwrecked  seaman  once  again  to 
grasp  a  hand  of  flesh  and  blood  after  years  of  miserable 
solitude.  They  have  the  freshness  of  the  daylight  life 
about  them.  You  can  hear  the  carters  cracking  their 
whips  and  crying  hoarsely  to  their  horses  or  to  one 
another;  and  sometimes  even  a  peal  of  healthy,  harsh 
horse-laughter  comes  up  to  you  through  the  dark- 
ness. There  is  now  an  end  of  mystery  and  fear.  Like 
the  knocking  at  the  door  in  Macbeth,^  or  the  cry  of  the 
watchman  in  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  they  show  that  the 
horrible  caesura  is  over  and  the  nightmares  have  fled 
away,  because  the  day  is  breaking  and  the  ordinary  life 
of  men  is  beginning  to  bestir  itself  among  the  streets. 
In  the  middle  of  it  all  I  fell  asleep,  to  be  awakened  by 
the  officious  knocking  at  my  door,  and  I  find  myself 
twelve  years  older  than  I  had  dreamed  myself  all  night. 

1  See  a  short  essay  of  De  Quincey's. 


Ill 

THE  WREATH  OF  IMMORTELLES 

It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  death  as  "a  pleasant 
potion  of  immortality  " ;  but  the  most  of  us,  I  suspect, 
are  of  "queasy  stomachs,"  and  find  it  none  of  the 
sweetest.^  The  graveyard  may  be  cloak-room  to 
Heaven;  but  we  must  admit  that  it  is  a  very  ugly  and 
offensive  vestibule  in  itself,  however  fair  may  be  the  life 
to  which  it  leads.  And  though  Enoch  and  Elias  went 
into  the  temple  through  a  gate  which  certainly  may  be 
called  Beautiful,  the  rest  of  us  have  to  find  our  way  to 
it  through  Ezekiel's  low-bowed  door  and  the  vault  full 
of  creeping  things  and  all  manner  of  abominable  beasts. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  a  certain  frame  of  mind  to  which 
a  cemetery  is,  if  not  an  antidote,  at  least  an  alleviation. 
If  you  are  in  a  fit  of  the  blues,  go  nowhere  else.  It 
was  in  obedience  to  this  wise  regulation  that  the  other 
morning  found  me  lighting  my  pipe  at  the  entrance  to 
Old  Greyfriars',  thoroughly  sick  of  the  town,  the  coun- 
try, and  myself. 

Two  of  the  men  were  talking  at  the  gate,  one  of 
them  carrying  a  spade  in  hands  still  crusted  with  the 
soil  of  graves.     Their  very  aspect  was  delightful  to  me ; 

1  Religio  Medici^  Part  ii. 
8 


THE   WREATH   OF  IMMORTELLES 

and  I  crept  nearer  to  them,  thinking  to  pick  up  some 
snatch  of  sexton  gossip,  some  "talk  fit  for  a  charnel,"i 
something,  in  fine,  worthy  of  that  fastidious  logician, 
that  adept  in  coroner's  law,  who  has  come  down  to  us 
as  the  patron  of  Yaughan's  liquor,  and  the  very  prince 
of  gravediggers.  Scots  people  in  general  are  so  much 
wrapped  up  in  their  profession  that  I  had  a  good  chance 
of  overhearing  such  conversation :  the  talk  of  fishmon- 
gers running  usually  on  stockfish  and  haddocks ;  while  of 
the  Scots  sexton  I  could  repeat  stories  and  speeches  that 
positively  smell  of  the  graveyard.  But  on  this  occasion 
I  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  My  two  friends 
were  far  into  the  region  of  generalities.  Their  profes- 
sion was  forgotten  in  their  electorship.  Politics  had 
engulfed  the  narrower  economy  of  gravedigging.  "  Na, 
na,"  said  the  one,  "ye  're  a'  wrang."  "The  English 
and  Irish  Churches,"  answered  the  other,  in  a  tone  as 
if  he  had  made  the  remark  before,  and  it  had  been 
called  in  question— "The  English  and  Irish  Churches 
have  impoverised  the  country." 

"Such  are  the  results  of  education,"  thought  I  as  I 
passed  beside  them  and  came  fairly  among  the  tombs. 
Here,  at  least,  there  were  no  commonplace  politics,  no 
diluted  this-morning's  leader,  to  distract  or  offend  me. 
The  old  shabby  church  showed,  as  usual,  its  quaint 
extent  of  roofage  and  the  relievo  skeleton  on  one  gable, 
still  blackened  with  the  fire  of  thirty  years  ago.  A  chill 
dank  mist  lay  over  all.  The  Old  Greyfriars'  churchyard 
was  in  perfection  that  morning,  and  one  could  go  round 
and  reckon  up  the  associations  with  no  fear  of  vulgar 
interruption.     On  this  stone  the  Covenant  was  signed. 

1  Duchess  of  Malfi. 
9 


SKETCHES 

In  that  vault,  as  the  story  goes,  John  Knox  took  hiding 
in  some  Reformation  broil.  From  that  window  Burke 
the  murderer  looked  out  many  a  time  across  the  tombs, 
and  perhaps  o'  nights  let  himself  down  over  the  sill  to 
rob  some  new-made  grave.  Certainly  he  would  have 
a  selection  here.  The  very  walks  have  been  carried 
over  forgotten  resting-places;  and  the  whole  ground 
is  uneven,  because  (as  I  was  once  quaintly  told)  "  when 
the  wood  rots  it  stands  to  reason  the  soil  should  fall 
in,"  which,  from  the  law  of  gravitation,  is  certainly 
beyond  denial.  But  it  is  round  the  boundary  that  there 
are  the  finest  tombs.  The  whole  irregular  space  is,  as 
it  were,  fringed  with  quaint  old  monuments,  rich  in 
death's-heads  and  scythes  and  hour-glasses,  and  doubly 
rich  in  pious  epitaphs  and  Latin  mottoes— rich  in  them 
to  such  an  extent  that  their  proper  space  has  run  over, 
and  they  have  crawled  end-long  up  the  shafts  of  columns 
and  ensconced  themselves  in  all  sorts  of  odd  corners 
among  the  sculpture.  These  tombs  raise  their  backs 
against  the  rabble  of  squalid  dwelling-houses,  and  every 
here  and  there  a  clothes-pole  projects  between  two 
monuments  its  fluttering  trophy  of  white  and  yellow 
and  red.  With  a  grim  irony  they  recall  the  banners  in 
the  Invalides,  banners  as  appropriate  perhaps  over  the 
sepulchres  of  tailors  and  weavers  as  these  others  above 
the  dust  of  armies.  Why  they  put  things  out  to  dry 
on  that  particular  morning  it  was  hard  to  imagine.  The 
grass  was  grey  with  drops  of  rain,  the  headstones  black 
with  moisture.  Yet,  in  despite  of  weather  and  com- 
mon-sense, there  they  hung  between  the  tombs;  and 
beyond  them  I  could  see  through  open  windows  into 
miserable  rooms  where  whole  families  were  born  and 


THE  WREATH   OF  IMMORTELLES 

fed,  and  slept  and  died.  At  one  a  girl  sat  singing 
merrily  with  her  back  to  the  graveyard ;  and  from  an- 
other came  the  shrill  tones  of  a  scolding  woman.  Every 
here  and  there  was  a  town  garden  full  of  sickly  flowers, 
or  a  pile  of  crockery  inside  upon  the  window-seat. 
But  you  do  not  grasp  the  full  connection  between  these 
houses  of  the  dead  and  the  living,  the  unnatural  mar- 
riage of  stately  sepulchres  and  squalid  houses,  till,  lower 
down,  where  the  road  has  sunk  far  below  the  surface 
of  the  cemetery,  and  the  very  roofs  are  scarcely  on  a 
level  with  its  wall,  you  observe  that  a  proprietor  has 
taken  advantage  of  a  tall  monument  and  trained  a 
chimney-stack  against  its  back.  It  startles  you  to  see 
the  red,  modern  pots  peering  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
tomb. 

A  man  was  at  work  on  a  grave,  his  spade  clinking 
away  the  drift  of  bones  that  permeates  the  thin  brown 
soil;  but  my  first  disappointment  had  taught  me  to 
expect  little  from  Greyfriars'  sextons,  and  I  passed  him 
by  in  silence.  A  slater  on  the  slope  of  a  neighbouring 
roof  eyed  me  curiously.  A  lean  black  cat,  looking  as 
if  it  had  battened  on  strange  meats,  slipped  past  me. 
A  little  boy  at  a  window  put  his  fmger  to  his  nose  in  so 
offensive  a  manner  that  I  was  put  upon  my  dignity, 
and  turned  grandly  off  to  read  old  epitaphs  and  peer 
through  the  gratings  into  the  shadow  of  vaults. 

Just  then  I  saw  two  women  coming  down  a  path, 
one  of  them  old,  and  the  other  younger,  with  a  child 
in  her  arms.  Both  had  faces  eaten  with  famine  and 
hardened  with  sin,  and  both  had  reached  that  stage  of 
degradation,  much  lower  in  a  woman  than  a  man, 
when  all  care  for  dress  is  lost.     As  they  came  down 


SKETCHES 

they  neared  a  grave,  where  some  pious  friend  or  rela- 
tive had  laid  a  wreath  of  immortelles,  and  put  a  bell 
glass  over  it,  as  is  the  custom.  The  effect  of  that  ring 
of  dull  yellow  among  so  many  blackened  and  dusty 
sculptures  was  more  pleasant  than  it  is  in  modern 
cemeteries,  where  every  second  mound  Can  boast  a 
similar  coronal;  and  here,  where  it  was  the  exception 
and  not  the  rule,  I  could  even  fancy  the  drops  of  mois- 
ture that  dimmed  the  covering  were  the  tears  of  those 
who  laid  it  where  it  was.  As  the  two  women  came  up 
to  it,  one  of  them  kneeled  down  on  the  wet  grass  and 
looked  long  and  silently  through  the  clouded  shade, 
while  the  second  stood  above  her,  gently  oscillating  to 
and  fro  to  lull  the  muling  baby.  I  was  struck  a  great 
way  off  with  something  religious  in  the  attitude  of  these 
two  unkempt  and  haggard  women;  and  I  drew  near 
faster,  but  still  cautiously,  to  hear  what  they  were  say- 
ing. Surely  on  them  the  spirit  of  death  and  decay  had 
descended:  I  had  no  education  to  dread  here:  should  I 
not  have  a  chance  of  seeing  nature  ?  Alas !  a  pawn- 
broker could  not  have  been  more  practical  and  com- 
monplace, for  this  was  what  the  kneeling  woman  said 
to  the  woman  upright— this  and  nothing  more:  "Eh, 
what  extravagance!  " 

O  nineteenth  century,  wonderful  art  thou  indeed- 
wonderful,  but  wearisome  in  thy  stale  and  deadly  uni- 
formity. Thy  men  are  more  like  numerals  than  men. 
They  must  bear  their  idiosyncrasies  or  their  professions 
written  on  a  placard  about  their  neck,  like  the  scenery 
in  Shakespeare's  theatre.  Thy  precepts  of  economy 
have  pierced  into  the  lowest  ranks  of  life ;  and  there  is 
now  a  decorum  in  vice,  a  respectability  among  the  dis- 


THE   WREATH   OF  IMMORTELLES 

reputable,  a  pure  spirit  of  Philistinism  among  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  thy  Bohemia.  For  lo !  thy  very  gravedig- 
gers  talk  politics;  and  thy  castaways  kneel  upon  new 
graves,  to  discuss  the  cost  of  the  monument  and  grum- 
ble at  the  improvidence  of  love. 

Such  was  the  elegant  apostrophe  that  I  made  as  1 
went  out  of  the  gates  again,  happily  satisfied  in  myself, 
and  feeling  that  1  alone  of  all  whom  I  had  seen  was  able 
to  profit  by  the  silent  poem  of  these  green  mounds  and 
blackened  headstones. 


13 


IV 

NURSES 

I  KNEW  one  once,  and  the  room  where,  lonely  and 
old,  she  waited  for  death.  It  was  pleasant  enough, 
high  up  above  the  lane,  and  looking  forth  upon  a  hill- 
side, covered  all  day  with  sheets  and  yellow  blankets, 
and  with  long  lines  of  underclothing  fluttering  between 
the  battered  posts.  There  were  any  number  of  cheap 
prints,  and  a  drawing  by  one  of  "her  children,"  and 
there  were  flowers  in  the  window,  and  a  sickly  canary 
withered  into  consumption  in  an  ornamental  cage.  The 
bed,  with  its  checkered  coverlid,  was  in  a  closet.  A 
great  Bible  lay  on  the  table;  and  her  drawers  were  full 
of  "  scones,"  which  it  was  her  pleasure  to  give  to  young 
visitors  such  as  I  was  then. 

You  may  not  think  this  a  melancholy  picture;  but  the 
canary,  and  the  cat,  and  the  white  mouse  that  she  had 
for  a  while,  and  that  died,  were  all  indications  of  the 
want  that  ate  into  her  heart.  I  think  I  know  a  little  of 
what  that  old  woman  felt;  and  I  am  as  sure  as  if  I  had 
seen  her,  that  she  sat  many  an  hour  in  silent  tears,  with 
the  big  Bible  open  before  her  clouded  eyes. 

If  you  could  look  back  upon  her  life,  and  feel  the  great 
chain  that  had  linked  her  to  one  child  after  another, 
sometimes  to    be  wrenched    suddenly   through,  and 

14 


NURSES 

sometimes,  which  is  infinitely  worse,  to  be  torn  gradu- 
ally off  through  years  of  growing  neglect,  or  perhaps 
growing  dislike!  She  had,  like  the  mother,  overcome 
that  natural  repugnance— repugnance  which  no  man 
can  conquer— towards  the  infirm  and  helpless  mass  of 
putty  of  the  earlier  stage.  She  had  spent  her  best  and 
happiest  years  in  tending,  watching,  and  learning  to  love 
like  a  mother  this  child,  with  which  she  has  no  con- 
nection and  to  which  she  has  no  tie.  Perhaps  she  re- 
fused some  sweetheart  (such  things  have  been),  or  put 
him  off  and  off,  until  he  lost  heart  and  turned  to  some 
one  else,  all  for  fear  of  leaving  this  creature  that  had 
wound  itself  about  her  heart.  And  the  end  of  it  all,— 
her  month's  warning,  and  a  present  perhaps,  and  the 
rest  of  the  life  to  vain  regret.  Or,  worse  still,  to  see 
the  child  gradually  forgetting  and  forsaking  her,  fostered 
in  disrespect  and  neglect  on  the  plea  of  growing  man- 
liness, and  at  last  beginning  to  treat  her  as  a  servant 
whom  he  had  treated  a  few  years  before  as  a  mother. 
She  sees  the  Bible  or  the  Psalm-book,  which  with  glad- 
ness and  love  unutterable  in  her  heart  she  had  bought 
for  him  years  ago  out  of  her  slender  savings,  neglected 
for  some  newer  gift  of  his  father,  lying  in  dust  in  the 
lumber-room  or  given  away  to  a  poor  child,  and  the  act 
applauded  for  its  unfeeling  charity.  Little  wonder  if 
she  becomes  hurt  and  angry,  and  attempts  to  tyrannise 
and  to  grasp  her  old  power  back  again.  We  are  not  all 
patient  Grizzels,  by  good  fortune,  but  the  most  of  us 
human  beings  with  feelings  and  tempers  of  our  own. 

And  so  in  the  end,  behold  her  in  the  room  that  I  de- 
scribed. Very  likely  and  very  naturally,  in  some  fling 
of  feverish  misery  or  recoil  of  thwarted  love,  she  has 

>5 


SKETCHES 

quarrelled  with  her  old  employers  and  the  children  are 
forbidden  to  see  her  or  to  speak  to  her;  or  at  best  she 
gets  her  rent  paid  and  a  little  to  herself,  and  now  and 
then  her  late  charges  are  sent  up  (with  another  nurse, 
perhaps)  to  pay  her  a  short  visit.  How  bright  these 
visits  seem  as  she  looks  forward  to  them  on  her  lonely 
bed!  How  unsatisfactory  their  realisation,  when  the 
forgetful  child,  half  wondering,  checks  with  every  word 
and  action  the  outpouring  of  her  maternal  love!  How 
bitter  and  restless  the  memories  that  they  leave  behind! 
And  for  the  rest,  what  else  has  she?— to  watch  them 
with  eager  eyes  as  they  go  to  school,  to  sit  in  church 
where  she  can  see  them  every  Sunday,  to  be  passed 
some  day  unnoticed  in  the  street,  or  deliberately  cut  be- 
cause the  great  man  or  the  great  woman  are  with  friends 
before  whom  they  are  ashamed  to  recognise  the  old 
woman  that  loved  them. 

When  she  goes  home  that  night,  how  lonely  will 
the  room  appear  to  her!  Perhaps  the  neighbours  may 
hear  her  sobbing  to  herself  in  the  dark,  with  the  fire 
burnt  out  for  want  of  fuel,  and  the  candle  still  unlit 
upon  the  table. 

And  it  is  for  this  that  they  live,  these  quasi-mothers 
—mothers  in  everything  but  the  travail  and  the  thanks. 
It  is  for  this  that  they  have  remained  virtuous  in  youth, 
living  the  dull  life  of  a  household  servant.  It  is  for 
this  that  they  refused  the  old  sweetheart,  and  have  no 
fireside  or  offspring  of  their  own. 

I  believe  in  a  better  state  of  things,  that  there  will  be 
no  more  nurses,  and  that  every  mother  will  nurse  her 
own  offspring;  for  what  can  be  more  hardening  and 
demoralising  than  to  call  forth  the  tenderest  feelings  of 

i6 


NURSES 

a  woman's  heart  and  cherish  them  yourself  as  long  as 
you  need  them,  as  long  as  your  children  require  a  nurse 
to  love  them,  and  then  to  blight  and  thwart  and  destroy 
them,  whenever  your  own  use  for  them  is  at  an  end? 
This  may  be  Utopian;  but  it  is  always  a  little  thing  if 
one  mother  or  two  mothers  can  be  brought  to  feel  more 
tenderly  to  those  who  share  their  toil  and  have  no  part 
in  their  reward. 


17 


A  CHARACTER 

The  man  has  a  red,  bloated  face,  and  his  figure  is 
short  and  squat.  So  far  there  is  nothing  in  him  to 
notice,  but  when  you  see  his  eyes,  you  can  read  in 
these  hard  and  shallow  orbs  a  depravity  beyond  mea- 
sure depraved,  a  thirst  after  wickedness,  the  pure,  dis- 
interested love  of  Hell  for  its  own  sake.  The  other 
night,  in  the  street,  I  was  watching  an  omnibus  passing 
with  lit-up  windows,  when  I  heard  some  one  coughing 
at  my  side  as  though  he  would  cough  his  soul  out ;  and 
turning  round,  I  saw  him  stopping  under  a  lamp,  with 
a  brown  greatcoat  buttoned  round  him  and  his  whole 
face  convulsed.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  live  long; 
and  so  the  sight  set  my  mind  upon  a  train  of  thought, 
as  I  finished  my  cigar  up  and  down  the  lighted  streets. 

He  is  old,  but  all  these  years  have  not  yet  quenched 
his  thirst  for  evil,  and  his  eyes  still  delight  themselves 
in  wickedness.  He  is  dumb;  but  he  will  not  let  that 
hinder  his  foul  trade,  or  perhaps  I  should  say,  his  yet 
fouler  amusement,  and  he  has  pressed  a  slate  into  the 
service  of  corruption.  Look  at  him,  and  he  will  sign 
to  you  with  his  bloated  head,  and  when  you  go  to  him 
in  answer  to  the  sign,  thinking  perhaps  that  the  poor 
dumb  man  has  lost  his  way,  you  will  see  what  he 

i8 


A    CHARACTER 

writes  upon  his  slate.  He  haunts  the  doors  of  schools, 
and  shows  such  inscriptions  as  these  to  the  innocent 
children  that  come  out.  He  hangs  about  picture-gal- 
leries, and  makes  the  noblest  pictures  the  text  for  some 
silent  homily  of  vice.  His  industry  is  a  lesson  to  our- 
selves. Is  it  not  wonderful  how  he  can  triumph  over 
his  infirmities  and  do  such  an  amount  of  harm  without  a 
tongue  ?  Wonderful  industry— strange,  fruitless,  plea- 
sureless  toil  ?  Must  not  the  very  devil  feel  a  soft  emo- 
tion to  see  his  disinterested  and  laborious  service  ?  Ah, 
but  the  devil  knows  better  than  this:  he  knows  that 
this  man  is  penetrated  with  the  love  of  evil  and  that  all 
his  pleasure  is  shut  up  in  wickedness,  he  recognises 
him,  perhaps,  as  a  fit  type  for  mankind  of  his  satanic 
self,  and  watches  over  his  effigy  as  we  might  watch 
over  a  favourite  likeness.  As  the  business  man  comes 
to  love  the  toil,  which  he  only  looked  upon  at  first  as 
a  ladder  towards  other  desires  and  less  unnatural  grati- 
fications, so  the  dumb  man  has  felt  the  charm  of  his 
trade  and  fallen  captivated  before  the  eyes  of  sin.  It 
is  a  mistake  when  preachers  tell  us  that  vice  Is  hideous 
and  loathsome;  for  even  vice  has  her  Horsel  and  her 
devotees,  who  love  her  for  her  own  sake. 


19 


COLLEGE  PAPERS 


Originally  printed  : 

I.  Edinburgh  University  Magazine,  January,  1871, 
II.   Ibid.,  February,  1871. 

III.  Ibid.,  March,  1871. 

IV.  Ibid.,  February,  1871. 

V.  Ibid.,  April,  1871. 

For  the  history  of  the  short-lived  periodical  to  which  these 
papers  (now  reprinted  for  the  first  time)  were  contributed, 
see  the  Author's  essay  "A  College  Magazine  "  in  "Memories 
and  Portraits  '*  (Travel  and  Essays,  vol.  xiii.  of  this  edi- 
tion). A  sixth  paper  contributed  to  the  same  publication, 
"  An  Old  Scots  Gardener,"  is  omitted  in  this  place,  having 
been  reprinted  with  corrections  by  the  Author  himself  in 
"Memories  and  Portraits." 


COLLEGE  PAPERS 

I 

EDINBURGH   STUDENTS  IN   1 824 

ON  the  2nd  of  January,  1824,  was  issued  the  pro- 
spectus of  the  Lapsus  Linguce ;  or,  the  College 
Taller;  and  on  the  7th  the  first  number  appeared.  On 
Friday  the  2nd  of  April  ''Mr.  Taller  became  speechless." 
Its  history  was  not  all  one  success ;  for  the  editor  (who 
applies  to  himself  the  words  of  lago,  "  I  am  nothing  if 
I  am  not  critical ")  overstepped  the  bounds  of  caution, 
and  found  himself  seriously  embroiled  with  the  powers 
that  were.  There  appeared  in  No.  xvi.  a  most  bitter 
satire  upon  Sir  John  Leslie,  in  which  he  was  compared 
to  FalstafT,  charged  with  puffmg  himself,  and  very 
prettily  censured  for  publishing  only  the  first  volume  of 
a  class-book,  and  making  all  purchasers  pay  for  both. 
Sir  John  Leslie  took  up  the  matter  angrily,  visited  Car- 
frae  the  publisher,  and  threatened  him  with  an  action, 
till  he  was  forced  to  turn  the  hapless  Lapsus  out  of 
doors.  The  maltreated  periodical  found  shelter  in  the 
shop  of  Huie,  Infirmary  Street;  and  No.  xvii.  was  duly 
issued  from  the  new   office.     No.    xvii.   beheld   Mr. 

23 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

Tatler's  humiliation,  in  which,  with  fulsome  apology 
and  not  very  credible  assurances  of  respect  and  admira- 
tion, he  disclaims  the  article  in  question,  and  advertises 
a  new  issue  of  No.  xvi.  with  all  objectionable  matter 
omitted.  This,  with  pleasing  euphemism,  he  terms  in 
a  later  advertisement,  "a  new  and  improved  edition." 
This  was  the  only  remarkable  adventure  of  Mr.  Tatler's 
brief  existence;  unless  we  consider  as  such  a  silly 
Chaldee  manuscript  in  imitation  of  Blackwood,  and  a 
letter  of  reproof  from  a  divinity  student  on  the  impiety 
of  the  same  dull  effusion.  He  laments  the  near  approach 
of  his  end  in  pathetic  terms.  "  How  shall  we  summon 
up  sufficient  courage,"  says  he,  "to  look  for  the  last 
time  on  our  beloved  little  devil  and  his  inestimable 
proof-sheet.^  How  shall  we  be  able  to  pass  No.  14 
Infirmary  Street  and  feel  that  all  its  attractions  are  over  ? 
How  shall  we  bid  farewell  for  ever  to  that  excellent  man, 
with  the  long  greatcoat,  wooden  leg  and  wooden  board, 
who  acts  as  our  representative  at  the  gate  of  Alma 
Mater?"  But  alas!  he  had  no  choice:  Mr.  Taller y 
whose  career,  he  says  himself,  had  been  successful, 
passed  peacefully  away,  and  has  ever  since  dumbly 
implored  "the  bringing  home  of  bell  and  burial." 

Alter  et  idem.  A  very  different  affair  was  the  Lapsus 
Linguce  from  the  Edinburgh  University  Magazine. 
The  two  prospectuses  alone,  laid  side  by  side,  would 
indicate  the  march  of  luxury  and  the  repeal  of  the  paper 
duty.  The  penny  bi-weekly  broadside  of  session  1 823-4 
was  almost  wholly  dedicated  to  Momus.  Epigrams, 
pointless  letters,  amorous  verses,  and  University  grie- 
vances are  the  continual  burthen  of  the  song.  But  Mr. 
Taller  was  not  without  a  vein  of  hearty  humour;  and 

24 


EDINBURGH    STUDENTS    IN    1824 

his  pages  afford  what  is  much  better:  to  wit,  a  good 
picture  of  student  life  as  it  then  was.  The  students  of 
those  polite  days  insisted  on  retaining  their  hats  in  the 
class-room.  There  was  a  cab-stance  in  front  of  the 
College;  and  "Carriage  Entrance"  was  posted  above 
the  main  arch,  on  what  the  writer  pleases  to  call "  coarse, 
unclassic  boards."  The  benches  of  the  "Speculative" 
then,  as  now,  were  red;  but  all  other  Societies  (the 
"  Dialectic  "  is  the  only  survivor)  met  down-stairs,  in 
some  rooms  of  which  it  is  pointedly  said  that  "  nothing 
else  could  conveniently  be  made  of  them."  However 
horrible  these  dungeons  may  have  been,  it  is  certain 
that  they  were  paid  for,  and  that  far  too  heavily  for  the 
taste  of  session  1823-4,  which  found  enough  calls  upon 
its  purse  for  porter  and  toasted  cheese  at  Ambrose's, 
or  cranberry  tarts  and  ginger-wine  at  Doull's.  Duel- 
ling was  still  a  possibility;  so  much  so  that  when  two 
medicals  fell  to  fisticuffs  in  Adam  Square,  it  was  seri- 
ously hinted  that  single  combat  would  be  the  result. 
Last  and  most  wonderful  of  all.  Gall  and  Spurzheim 
were  in  every  one's  mouth ;  and  the  Law  student,  after 
having  exhausted  Byron's  poetry  and  Scott's  novels, 
informed  the  ladies  of  his  belief  in  phrenology.  In  the 
present  day  he  would  dilate  on  "  Red  as  a  rose  is  she,  '* 
and  then  mention  that  he  attends  Old  Greyfriars',  as  a 
tacit  claim  to  intellectual  superiority.  I  do  not  know 
that  the  advance  is  much. 

But  Mr.  Tatlefs  best  performances  were  three  short 
papers  in  which  he  hit  off  pretty  smartly  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  the  ''Divinity,''  the  ''Medical,''  and  the 
"  Law  "  of  session  1823-4.  The  fact  that  there  was  no 
notice  of  the  "Arts  "  seems  to  suggest  that  they  stood 

25 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

in  the  same  intermediate  position  as  they  do  now— the 
epitome  of  student-kind.  Mr.  Tatler's  satire  is,  on  the 
whole,  good-humoured,  and  has  not  grown  superan- 
nuated in  all  its  limbs.  His  descriptions  may  limp  at 
some  points,  but  there  are  certain  broad  traits  that  apply 
equally  well  to  session  1870-71.  He  shows  us  the 
Divinity  of  the  period— tall,  pale,  and  slender— his  col- 
lar greasy,  and  his  coat  bare  about  the  seams—"  his 
white  neckcloth  serving  four  days,  and  regularly  turned 
the  third,"— "the  rim  of  his  hat  deficient  in  wool,"— 
and  "a  weighty  volume  of  theology  under  his  arm." 
He  was  the  man  to  buy  cheap  "  a  snuff-box,  or  a  dozen 
of  pencils,  or  a  six-bladed  knife,  or  a  quarter  of  a  hun- 
dred quills,"  at  any  of  the  public  sale-rooms.  He  was 
noted  for  cheap  purchases,  and  for  exceeding  the  legal 
tender  in  halfpence.  He  haunted  "the  darkest  and 
remotest  corner  of  the  Theatre  Gallery."  He  was 
to  be  seen  issuing  from  "aerial  lodging-houses." 
Withal,  says  mine  author,  "there  were  many  good 
points  about  him:  he  paid  his  landlady's  bill,  read 
his  Bible,  went  twice  to  church  on  Sunday,  seldom 
swore,  was  not  often  tipsy,  and  bought  the  Lapsus 
Linguce." 

The  Medical,  again,  "wore  a  white  greatcoat,  and 
consequently  talked  loud"— (there  is  something  very 
delicious  in  that  consequently).  He  wore  his  hat  on 
one  side.  He  was  active,  volatile,  and  went  to  the  top 
of  Arthur's  Seat  on  the  Sunday  forenoon.  He  was  as 
quiet  in  a  debating  society  as  he  was  loud  in  the  streets. 
He  was  reckless  and  imprudent:  yesterday  he  insisted 
on  your  sharing  a  bottle  of  claret  with  him  (and  claret 
was  claret  then,  before  the  cheap-and-nasty  treaty),  and 

26 


EDINBURGH    STUDENTS    IN    1824 

to-morrow  he  asks  you  for  the  loan  of  a  penny  to  buy 
the  last  number  of  the  Lapsus. 

The  student  of  Law,  again,  was  a  learned  man.  "  He 
had  turned  over  the  leaves  of  Justinian's  Institutes,  and 
knew  that  they  were  written  in  Latin.  He  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  title-page  of  Blackstone's  Commen- 
taries, and  argal  (as  the  gravedigger  in  Hamlet  says) 
he  was  not  a  person  to  be  laughed  at."  He  attended 
the  Parliament  House  in  the  character  of  a  critic,  and 
could  give  you  stale  sneers  at  all  the  celebrated  speakers. 
He  was  the  terror  of  essayists  at  the  Speculative  or  the 
Forensic.  In  social  qualities  he  seems  to  have  stood 
unrivalled.  Even  in  the  police-office  we  find  him  shin- 
ing with  undiminished  lustre.  "  If  a  Charlie  should 
find  him  rather  noisy  at  an  untimely  hour,  and  venture 
to  take  him  into  custody,  he  appears  next  morning  like 
a  Daniel  come  to  judgment.  He  opens  his  mouth  to 
speak,  and  the  divine  precepts  of  unchanging  justice 
and  Scots  Law  flow  from  his  tongue.  The  magistrate 
listens  in  amazement,  and  fines  him  only  a  couple  of 
guineas." 

Such  then  were  our  predecessors  and  their  College 
Magazine.  Barclay,  Ambrose,  Young  Amos,  and  Fer- 
gusson  were  to  them  what  the  Cafe,  the  Rainbow,  and 
Rutherford's  are  to  us.  An  hour's  reading  in  these  old 
pages  absolutely  confuses  us,  there  is  so  much  that  is 
similar  and  so  much  that  is  different;  the  follies  and 
amusements  are  so  like  our  own,  and  the  manner  of 
frolicking  and  enjoying  are  so  changed,  that  one  pauses 
and  looks  about  him  in  philosophic  judgment.  The 
muddy  quadrangle  is  thick  with  living  students ;  but  in 
our  eyes  it  swarms  also  with  the  phantasmal  white 

27 


COLLEGE  PAPERS 

greatcoats  and  tilted  hats  of  1824.  Two  races  meet: 
races  alike  and  diverse.  Two  performances  are  played 
before  our  eyes ;  but  the  change  seems  merely  of  imper- 
sonators, of  scenery,  of  costume.  Plot  and  passion  are 
the  same.  It  is  the  fall  of  the  spun  shilling  whether 
seventy-one  or  twenty-four  has  the  best  of  it. 

In  a  future  number  we  hope  to  give  a  glance  at  the 
individualities  of  the  present,  and  see  whether  the  cast 
shall  be  head  or  tail— whether  we  or  the  readers  of  the 
Lapsus  stand  higher  in  the  balance. 


a8 


II 

THE   MODERN  STUDENT   CONSIDERED  GENERALLY 

We  have  now  reached  the  difficult  portion  of  our 
task.  Mr.  Tatler,  for  all  that  we  care,  may  have  been 
as  virulent  as  he  liked  about  the  students  of  a  former 
day ;  but  for  the  iron  to  touch  our  sacred  selves,  for  a 
brother  of  the  Guild  to  betray  its  most  privy  infirmities, 
let  such  a  Judas  look  to  himself  as  he  passes  on  his 
way  to  the  Scots  Law  or  the  Diagnostic,  below  the 
solitary  lamp  at  the  corner  of  the  dark  quadrangle.  We 
confess  that  this  idea  alarms  us.  We  enter  a  protest. 
We  bind  ourselves  over  verbally  to  keep  the  peace. 
We  hope,  moreover,  that  having  thus  made  you  secret 
to  our  misgivings,  you  will  excuse  us  if  we  be  dull, 
and  set  that  down  to  caution  which  you  might  before 
have  charged  to  the  account  of  stupidity. 

The  natural  tendency  of  civilisation  is  to  obliterate 
those  distinctions  which  are  the  best  salt  of  life.  All 
the  fine  old  professional  flavour  in  language  has  evapo- 
rated. Your  very  gravedigger  has  forgotten  his  avo- 
cation in  his  electorship,  and  would  quibble  on  the 
Franchise  over  Ophelia's  grave,  instead  of  more  appro- 
priately discussing  the  duration  of  bodies  under  ground. 
From  this  tendency,  from  this  gradual  attrition  of  life, 
in  which  everything  pointed  and  characteristic  is  being 

29 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

rubbed  down,  till  the  whole  world  begins  to  slip  be- 
tween our  fingers  in  smooth  undistinguishable  sands, 
from  this,  we  say,  it  follows  that  we  must  not  attempt 
to  join  Mr.  Tatler  in  his  simple  division  of  students 
into  Law,  Divinity,  and  Medical.  Nowadays  the 
faculties  may  shake  hands  over  their  follies ;  and,  like 
Mrs.  Frail  and  Mrs.  Foresight  (in  Love  for  Love),  they 
may  stand  in  the  doors  of  opposite  class-rooms,  crying : 
"  Sister,  Sister— Sister  everyway !  "  A  few  restrictions, 
indeed,  remain  to  influence  the  followers  of  individual 
branches  of  study.  The  Divinity,  for  example,  must 
be  an  avowed  believer;  and  as  this,  in  the  present  day, 
is  unhappily  considered  by  many  as  a  confession  of 
weakness,  he  is  fain  to  choose  one  of  two  ways  of  gild- 
ing the  distasteful  orthodox  bolus.  Some  swallow  it 
in  a  thin  jelly  of  metaphysics ;  for  it  is  even  a  credit  to 
believe  in  God  on  the  evidence  of  some  crack-jaw  phi- 
losopher, although  it  is  a  decided  slur  to  believe  in  Him 
on  His  own  authority.  Others  again  (and  this  we  think 
the  worst  method),  finding  German  grammar  a  some- 
what dry  morsel,  run  their  own  little  heresy  as  a  proof 
of  independence;  and  deny  one  of  the  cardinal  doc- 
trines that  they  may  hold  the  others  without  being 
laughed  at. 

Besides,  however,  such  influences  as  these,  there  is 
little  more  distinction  between  the  faculties  than  the  tra- 
ditionary ideal,  handed  down  through  a  long  sequence  of 
students,  and  getting  rounder  and  more  featureless  at 
each  successive  session.  The  plague  of  uniformity  has 
descended  on  the  College.  Students  (and  indeed  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men)  now  require  their  faculty 
and  character  hung  round  their  neck  on  a  placard,  like 

30  , 


THE    MODERN    STUDENT    CONSIDERED   GENERALLY 

the  scenes  in  Shakespeare's  theatre.  And  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  weary  sameness,  not  the  least  common  fea- 
ture is  the  gravity  of  every  face.  No  more  does  the 
merry  medical  run  eagerly  in  the  clear  winter  morning 
up  the  rugged  sides  of  Arthur's  Seat,  and  hear  the 
church  bells  begin  and  thicken  and  die  away  below  him 
among  the  gathered  smoke  of  the  city.  He  will  not 
break  Sunday  to  so  little  purpose.  He  no  longer  finds 
pleasure  in  the  mere  output  of  his  surplus  energy.  He 
husbands  his  strength,  and  lays  out  walks,  and  reading, 
and  amusement  with  deep  consideration,  so  that  he 
may  get  as  much  work  and  pleasure  out  of  his  body 
as  he  can,  and  waste  none  of  his  energy  on  mere  im- 
pulse, or  such  flat  enjoyment  as  an  excursion  in  the 
country. 

See  the  quadrangle  in  the  interregnum  of  classes,  in 
those  two  or  three  minutes  when  it  is  full  of  passing 
students,  and  we  think  you  will  admit  that,  if  we  have 
not  made  it  "an  habitation  of  dragons,"  we  have  at 
least  transformed  it  into  "  a  court  for  owls."  Solemnity 
broods  heavily  over  the  enclosure;  and  wherever  you 
seek  it,  you  will  find  a  dearth  of  merriment,  an  absence 
of  real  youthful  enjoyment.     You  might  as  well  try 

"  To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat  of  death," 

as  to  excite  any  healthy  stir  among  the  bulk  of  this 
staid  company. 

The  studious  congregate  about  the  doors  of  the  differ- 
ent classes,  debating  the  matter  of  the  lecture,  or  com- 
paring note-books.  A  reserved  rivalry  sunders  them. 
Here  are  some  deep  in  Greek  particles :  there,  others  are 
already  inhabitants  of  that  land 

3» 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

"  Where  entity  and  quiddity, 
Like  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  fly- 
Where  Truth  in  person  does  appear 
Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air." 

But  none  of  them  seem  to  find  any  relish  for  their 
studies— no  pedantic  love  of  this  subject  or  that  lights 
up  their  eyes— science  and  learning  are  only  means  for 
a  livelihood,  which  they  have  considerately  embraced 
and  which  they  solemnly  pursue.  "  Labour's  pale 
priests,"  their  lips  seem  incapable  of  laughter,  except  in 
the  way  of  polite  recognition  of  professorial  wit.  The 
stains  of  ink  are  chronic  on  their  meagre  fingers.  They 
walk  like  Saul  among  the  asses. 

The  dandies  are  not  less  subdued.  In  1824  there  was 
a  noisy  dapper  dandyism  abroad.  Vulgar,  as  we 
should  now  think,  but  yet  genial— a  matter  of  white 
greatcoats  and  loud  voices— strangely  different  from 
the  stately  frippery  that  is  rife  at  present.  These  men 
are  out  of  their  element  in  the  quadrangle.  Even  the 
small  remains  of  boisterous  humour,  which  still  cling 
to  any  collection  of  young  men,  jar  painfully  on  their 
morbid  sensibilities;  and  they  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to 
resume  their  perfunctory  march  along  Princes  Street. 
Flirtation  is  to  them  a  great  social  duty,  a  painful  obli- 
gation, which  they  perform  on  every  occasion  in  the 
same  chill  official  manner,  and  with  the  same  com- 
monplace advances,  the  same  dogged  observance  of 
traditional  behaviour.  The  shape  of  their  raiment  is  a 
burden  almost  greater  than  they  can  bear,  and  they  halt 
in  their  walk  to  preserve  the  due  adjustment  of  their 
trouser-knees,  till  one  would  fancy  he  had  mixed  in  a 
procession  of  Jacobs.     We  speak,  of  course,  for  our- 

32 


THE   MODERN    STUDENT    CONSIDERED   GENERALLY 

selves ;  but  we  would  as  soon  associate  with  a  herd  of 
sprightly  apes  as  with  these  gloomy  modern  beaux. 
Alas,  that  our  Mirabels,  our  Valentines,  even  our  Brum- 
mels,  should  have  left  their  mantles  upon  nothing  more 
amusing! 

Nor  are  the  fast  men  less  constrained.  Solemnity, 
even  in  dissipation,  is  the  order  of  the  day;  and  they  go 
to  the  devil  with  a  perverse  seriousness,  a  systematic 
rationalism  of  wickedness  that  would  have  surprised 
the  simpler  sinners  of  old.  Some  of  these  men  whom 
we  see  gravely  conversing  on  the  steps  have  but  a  slen- 
der acquaintance  with  each  other.  Their  intercourse 
consists  principally  of  mutual  bulletins  of  depravity; 
and,  week  after  week,  as  they  meet  they  reckon  up 
their  items  of  transgression,  and  give  an  abstract  of 
their  downward  progress  for  approval  and  encourage- 
ment. These  folk  form  a  freemasonry  of  their  own. 
An  oath  is  the  shibboleth  of  their  sinister  fellowship. 
Once  they  hear  a  man  swear,  it  is  wonderful  how  their 
tongues  loosen  and  their  bashful  spirits  take  enlarge- 
ment, under  the  consciousness  of  brotherhood.  There 
is  no  folly,  no  pardoning  warmth  of  temper  about  them ; 
they  are  as  steady-going  and  systematic  in  their  own 
way  as  the  studious  in  theirs. 

Not  that  we  are  without  merry  men.  No.  We  shall 
not  be  ungrateful  to  those  whose  grimaces,  whose 
ironical  laughter,  whose  active  feet  in  the  College  An- 
them have  beguiled  so  many  weary  hours  and  added  a 
pleasant  variety  to  the  strain  of  close  attention.  But 
even  these  are  too  evidently  professional  in  their  antics. 
They  go  about  cogitating  puns  and  inventing  tricks. 
It  is  their  vocation,  Hal.    They  are  the  gratuitous  jesters 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

of  the  class-room ;  and,  like  the  clown  when  he  leaves 
the  stage,  their  merriment  too  often  sinks  as  the  bell 
rings  the  hour  of  liberty,  and  they  pass  forth  by  the 
Post-Office,  grave  and  sedate,  and  meditating  fresh 
gambols  for  the  morrow. 

This  is  the  impression  left  on  the  mind  of  any  observ- 
ing student  by  too  many  of  his  fellows.  They  seem 
all  frigid  old  men ;  and  one  pauses  to  think  how  such 
an  unnatural  state  of  matters  is  produced.  We  feel 
inclined  to  blame  for  it  the  unfortunate  absence  of 
University  feeling  which  is  so  marked  a  characteristic 
of  our  Edinburgh  students.  Academical  interests  are  so 
few  and  far  between— students,  as  students,  have  so 
little  in  common,  except  a  peevish  rivalry— there  is  such 
an  entire  want  of  broad  college  sympathies  and  ordinary 
college  friendships,  that  we  fancy  that  no  University 
in  the  kingdom  is  in  so  poor  a  plight.  Our  system 
is  full  of  anomalies.  A,  who  cut  B  whilst  he  was  a 
shabby  student,  curries  sedulously  up  to  him  and  cud- 
gels his  memory  for  anecdotes  about  him  when  he 
becomes  the  great  so-and-so.  Let  there  be  an  end  of 
this  shy,  proud  reserve  on  the  one  hand,  and  this  shud- 
dering fine-ladyism  on  the  other;  and  we  think  we  shall 
find  both  ourselves  and  the  College  bettered.  Let  it  be 
a  sufficient  reason  for  intercourse  that  two  men  sit  to- 
gether on  the  same  benches.  Let  the  great  A  be  held 
excused  for  nodding  to  the  shabby  B  in  Princes  Street, 
if  he  can  say,  "That  fellow  is  a  student."  Once  this 
could  be  brought  about,  we  think  you  would  find  the 
whole  heart  of  the  University  beat  faster.  We  think 
you  would  find  a  fusion  among  the  students,  a  growth 
of  common  feelings,  an  increasing  sympathy  between 

34 


THE   MODERN   STUDENT  CONSIDERED  GENERALLY 

class  and  class,  whose  influence  (in  such  a  heterogene- 
ous company  as  ours)  might  be  of  incalculable  value  in 
all  branches  of  politics  and  social  progress.  It  would 
do  more  than  this.  If  we  could  find  some  method  of 
making  the  University  a  real  mother  to  her  sons- 
something  beyond  a  building  full  of  class-rooms,  a 
Senatus  and  a  lottery  of  somewhat  shabby  prizes— we 
should  strike  a  death-blow  at  the  constrained  and  un- 
natural attitude  of  our  Society.  At  present  we  are  not 
a  united  body,  but  a  loose  gathering  of  individuals, 
whose  inherent  attraction  is  allowed  to  condense  them 
into  little  knots  and  coteries.  Our  last  snowball  riot 
read  us  a  plain  lesson  on  our  condition.  There  was  no 
party  spirit— no  unity  of  interests.  A  few,  who  were 
mischievously  inclined,  marched  off  to  the  College  of  Sur- 
geons in  a  pretentious  file ;  but  even  before  they  reached 
their  destination  the  feeble  inspiration  had  died  out  in 
many,  and  their  numbers  were  sadly  thinned.  Some 
followed  strange  gods  in  the  direction  of  Drummond 
Street,  and  others  slunk  back  to  meek  good-boyism  at 
the  feet  of  the  Professors.  The  same  is  visible  in  bet- 
ter things.  As  you  send  a  man  to  an  English  Univer- 
sity that  he  may  have  his  prejudices  rubbed  off,  you 
might  send  him  to  Edinburgh  that  he  may  have  them 
ingrained— rendered  indelible— fostered  by  sympathy 
into  living  principles  of  his  spirit.  And  the  reason  of 
it  is  quite  plain.  From  this  absence  of  University  feel- 
ing it  comes  that  a  man's  friendships  are  always  the 
direct  and  immediate  results  of  these  very  prejudices. 
A  common  weakness  is  the  best  master  of  ceremonies 
in  our  quadrangle:  a  mutual  vice  is  the  readiest  intro- 
duction.    The  studious  associate   with  the  studious 

35 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

alone— the  dandies  with  the  dandies.  There  is  nothing 
to  force  them  to  rub  shoulders  with  the  others;  and 
so  they  grow  day  by  day  more  wedded  to  their  own 
original  opinions  and  affections.  They  see  through  the 
same  spectacles  continually.  All  broad  sentiments,  all 
real  catholic  humanity  expires ;  and  the  mind  gets  gradu- 
ally stiffened  into  one  position— becomes  so  habituated 
to  a  contracted  atmosphere,  that  it  shudders  and  withers 
under  the  least  draught  of  the  free  air  that  circulates  in 
the  general  field  of  mankind. 

Specialism  in  Society,  then,  is,  we  think,  one  cause  of 
our  present  state.  Specialism  in  study  is  another.  We 
doubt  whether  this  has  ever  been  a  good  thing  since 
the  world  began;  but  we  are  sure  it  is  much  worse 
now  than  it  was.  Formerly,  when  a  man  became  a 
specialist,  it  was  out  of  affection  for  his  subject.  With 
a  somewhat  grand  devotion  he  left  all  the  world  of 
Science  to  follow  his  true  love;  and  he  contrived  to 
find  that  strange  pedantic  interest  which  inspired  the 
man  who 

*'  Settled  Hoti's  business— let  it  be- 
Properly  based  Oun— 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De^ 
Dead  from  the  waist  down." 

Nowadays  it  is  quite  different.  Our  pedantry  wants 
even  the  saving  clause  of  Enthusiasm.  The  election  is 
now  matter  of  necessity  and  not  of  choice.  Knowledge 
is  now  too  broad  a  field  for  your  Jack-of-all-Trades ; 
and,  from  beautifully  utilitarian  reasons,  he  makes  his 
choice,  draws  his  pen  through  a  dozen  branches  of 
study,  and  behold— John  the  Specialist.  That  this  is 
the  way  to  be  wealthy  we  shall  not  deny ;  but  we  hold 

36 


THE   MODERN   STUDENT   CONSIDERED   GENERALLY 

ihat  it  is  not  the  way  to  be  healthy  or  wise.  The 
whole  mind  becomes  narrowed  and  circumscribed  to 
one  "  punctual  spot "  of  knowledge.  A  rank  unhealthy 
soil  breeds  a  harvest  of  prejudices.  Feeling  himself 
above  others  in  his  one  little  branch— in  the  classification 
of  toadstools,  or  Carthaginian  history— he  waxes  great 
in  his  own  eyes  and  looks  down  on  others.  Having 
all  his  sympathies  educated  in  one  way,  they  die  out  in 
every  other;  and  he  is  apt  to  remain  a  peevish,  narrow, 
and  intolerant  bigot.  Dilettante  is  now  a  term  of  re- 
proach; but  there  is  a  certain  form  of  dilettantism  to 
which  no  one  can  object.  It  is  this  that  we  want 
among  our  students.  We  wish  them  to  abandon  no 
subject  until  they  have  seen  and  felt  its  merit— to  act 
under  a  general  interest  in  all  branches  of  knowledge, 
not  a  commercial  eagerness  to  excel  in  one. 

In  both  these  directions  our  sympathies  are  consti- 
pated. We  are  apostles  of  our  own  caste  and  our  own 
subject  of  study,  instead  of  being,  as  we  should,  true 
men  and  loving  students.  Of  course  both  of  these 
could  be  corrected  by  the  students  themselves ;  but  this 
is  nothing  to  the  purpose:  it  is  more  important  to  ask 
whether  the  Senatus  or  the  body  of  alumni  could  do 
nothing  towards  the  growth  of  better  feeling  and  wider 
sentiments.  Perhaps  in  another  paper  we  may  say 
something  upon  this  head. 

One  other  word,  however,  before  we  have  done. 
What  shall  we  be  when  we  grow  really  old  ?  Of  yore, 
a  man  was  thought  to  lay  on  restrictions  and  acquire  new 
deadweight  of  mournful  experience  with  every  year,  till 
he  looked  back  on  his  youth  as  the  very  summer  of 
impulse  and  freedom.     We  please  ourselves  with  think- 

37 


COLLEGE  PAPERS 

ing  that  it  cannot  be  so  with  us.  We  would  fain  hope 
that,  as  we  have  begun  in  one  way,  we  may  end  in 
another;  and  that  when  we  are  in  fact  the  octogena- 
rians that  we  seem  at  present,  there  shall  be  no  merrier 
men  on  earth.  It  is  pleasant  to  picture  us,  sunning 
ourselves  in  Princes  Street  of  a  morning,  or  chirping 
over  our  evening  cups,  with  all  the  merriment  that  we 
wanted  in  youth. 


38 


Ill 

DEBATING  SOCIETIES 

A  DEBATING  society  is  at  first  somewhat  of  a  disap- 
pointment. You  do  not  often  find  the  youthful  De- 
mosthenes chewing  his  pebbles  in  the  same  room  with 
you ;  or,  even  if  you  do,  you  will  probably  think  the 
performance  little  to  be  admired.  As  a  general  rule, 
the  members  speak  shamefully  ill.  The  subjects  of 
debate  are  heavy;  and  so  are  the  fines.  The  Ballot 
Question— oldest  of  dialectic  nightmares— is  often  found 
astride  of  a  somnolent  sederunt.  The  Greeks  and 
Romans,  too,  are  reserved  as  sort  of  general-utility 
men,  to  do  all  the  dirty  work  of  illustration ;  and  they 
fill  as  many  functions  as  the  famous  waterfall  scene  at 
the  Princess's,  which  1  found  doing  duty  on  one  even- 
ing as  a  gorge  in  Peru,  a  haunt  of  German  robbers,  and 
a  peaceful  vale  in  the  Scottish  borders.  There  is  a  sad 
absence  of  striking  argument  or  real  lively  discussion. 
Indeed,  you  feel  a  growing  contempt  for  your  fellow- 
members  ;  and  it  is  not  until  you  rise  yourself  to  hawk 
and  hesitate  and  sit  shamefully  down  again,  amid  elee- 
mosynary applause,  that  you  begin  to  find  your  level 
and  value  others  rightly.  Even  then,  even  when  failure 
has  damped  your  critical  ardour,  you  will  see  many 
things  to  be  laughed  at  in  the  deportment  of  your  rivals. 

39 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

Most  laughable,  perhaps,  are  your  indefatigable 
strivers  after  eloquence.  They  are  of  those  who  "  pur- 
sue with  eagerness  the  phantoms  of  hope,"  and  who, 
since  they  expect  that  "  the  deficiencies  of  last  sentence 
will  be  supplied  by  the  next,"  have  been  recommended 
by  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  to  "  attend  to  the  History  of 
Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia."  They  are  characterised 
by  a  hectic  hopefulness.  Nothing  damps  them.  They 
rise  from  the  ruins  of  one  abortive  sentence,  to  launch 
forth  into  another  with  unabated  vigour.  They  have 
all  the  manner  of  an  orator.  From  the  tone  of  their 
voice,  you  would  expect  a  splendid  period— and  lo!  a 
string  of  broken-backed,  disjointed  clauses,  eked  out 
with  stammerings  and  throat-clearings.  They  possess 
the  art  (learned  from  the  pulpit)  of  rounding  an  uneu- 
phonious  sentence  by  dwelling  on  a  single  syllable— of 
striking  a  balance  in  a  top-heavy  period  by  lengthening 
out  a  word  into  a  melancholy  quaver.  Withal,  they 
never  cease  to  hope.  Even  at  last,  even  when  they 
have  exhausted  all  their  ideas,  even  after  the  would-be 
peroration  has  finally  refused  to  perorate,  they  remain 
upon  their  feet  with  their  mouths  open,  waiting  for 
some  further  inspiration,  like  Chaucer's  widow's  son  in 
the  dung-hole,  after 

**  His  throat  was  kit  unto  the  nekke  bone," 

in  vain  expectation  of  that  seed  that  was  to  be  laid 
upon  his  tongue,  and  give  him  renewed  and  clearer 
utterance. 

These  men  may  have  something  to  say,  if  they  could 
only  say  it— indeed  they  generally  have;  but  the  next 
class  are  people  who,  having  nothing  to  say,  are  cursed 

40 


DEBATING  SOCIETIES 

with  a  facility  and  an  unhappy  command  of  words, 
that  makes  them  the  prime  nuisances  of  the  society  they 
affect.  They  try  to  cover  their  absence  of  matter  by  an 
unwholesome  vitality  of  delivery.  They  look  trium- 
phantly round  the  room,  as  if  courting  applause,  after 
a  torrent  of  diluted  truism.  They  talk  in  a  circle,  harp- 
ing on  the  same  dull  round  of  argument,  and  returning 
again  and  again  to  the  same  remark  with  the  same 
sprightliness,  the  same  irritating  appearance  of  novelty. 

After  this  set,  any  one  is  tolerable ;  so  we  shall  merely 
hint  at  a  few  other  varieties.  There  is  your  man  who 
is  pre-eminently  conscientious,  whose  face  beams  with 
sincerity  as  he  opens  on  the  negative,  and  who  votes 
on  the  affirmative  at  the  end,  looking  round  the  room 
with  an  air  of  chastened  pride.  There  is  also  the  ir- 
relevant speaker,  who  rises,  emits  a  joke  or  two,  and 
then  sits  down  again,  without  ever  attempting  to  tackle 
the  subject  of  debate.  Again,  we  have  men  who  ride 
pick-a-pack  on  their  family  reputation,  or,  if  their 
family  have  none,  identify  themselves  with  some  well- 
known  statesman,  use  his  opinions,  and  lend  him  their 
patronage  on  all  occasions.  This  is  a  dangerous  plan, 
and  serves  oftener,  I  am  afraid,  to  point  a  difference 
than  to  adorn  a  speech. 

But  alas!  a  striking  failure  may  be  reached  without 
tempting  Providence  by  any  of  these  ambitious  tricks. 
Our  own  stature  will  be  found  high  enough  for  shame. 
The  success  of  three  simple  sentences  lures  us  into  a 
fatal  parenthesis  in  the  fourth,  from  whose  shut  brackets 
we  may  never  disentangle  the  thread  of  our  discourse. 
A  momentary  flush  tempts  us  into  a  quotation;  and  we 
may  be  left  helpless  in  the  middle  of  one  of  Pope's 

4i 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

couplets,  a  white  film  gathering  before  our  eyes,  and 
our  kind  friends  charitably  trying  to  cover  our  disgrace 
by  a  feeble  round  of  applause.  Amis  lecteurs,  this  is  a 
painful  topic.  It  is  possible  that  we  too,  we,  the  "  po- 
tent, grave,  and  reverend"  editor,  may  have  suffered 
these  things,  and  drunk  as  deep  as  any  of  the  cup  of 
shameful  failure.  Let  us  dwell  no  longer  on  so  delicate 
a  subject. 

In  spite,  however,  of  these  disagreeables,  I  should 
recommend  any  student  to  suffer  them  with  Spartan 
courage,  as  the  benefits  he  receives  should  repay  him  an 
hundredfold  for  them  all.  The  life  of  the  debating 
society  is  a  handy  antidote  to  the  life  of  the  class-room 
and  quadrangle.  Nothing  could  be  conceived  more 
excellent  as  a  weapon  against  many  of  those  peccant 
humours  that  we  have  been  railing  against  in  the  Jere- 
miad of  our  last  College  P^^^r— particularly  in  the  field 
of  intellect.  It  is  a  sad  sight  to  see  our  heather-scented 
students,  our  boys  of  seventeen,  coming  up  to  College 
with  determined  views— roues  in  speculation— having 
gauged  the  vanity  of  philosophy  or  learned  to  shun  it 
as  the  middleman  of  heresy— a  company  of  determined, 
deliberate  opinionists,  not  to  be  moved  by  all  the 
sleights  of  logic.  What  have  such  men  to  do  with 
study  ?  If  their  minds  are  made  up  irrevocably,  why 
burn  the  "  studious  lamp  "  in  search  of  further  confirma- 
tion ?  Every  set  opinion  I  hear  a  student  deliver  I  feel 
a  certain  lowering  of  my  regard.  He  who  studies,  he 
who  is  yet  employed  in  groping  for  his  premises, 
should  keep  his  mind  fluent  and  sensitive,  keen  to  mark 
flaws,  and  willing  to  surrender  untenable  positions.  He 
should  keep  himself  teachable,  or  cease  the  expensive 

42. 


DEBATING  SOCIETIES 

farce  of  being  taught.  It  is  to  further  this  docile  spirit 
that  we  desire  to  press  the  claims  of  debating  societies. 
It  is  as  a  means  of  melting  down  this  museum  of  pre- 
mature petrifactions  into  living  and  impressionable  soul 
that  we  insist  on  their  utility.  If  we  could  once  pre- 
vail on  our  students  to  feel  no  shame  in  avowing  an 
uncertain  attitude  towards  any  subject,  if  we  could 
teach  them  that  it  was  unnecessary  for  every  lad  to 
have  his  opinionette  on  every  topic,  we  should  have 
gone  a  far  way  towards  bracing  the  intellectual  tone  of 
the  coming  race  of  thinkers;  and  this  it  is  which  de- 
bating societies  are  so  well  fitted  to  perform. 

We  there  meet  people  of  every  shade  of  opinion,  and 
make  friends  with  them.  We  are  taught  to  rail  against 
a  man  the  whole  session  through,  and  then  hob-a-nob 
with  him  at  the  concluding  entertainment.  We  find 
men  of  talent  far  exceeding  our  own,  whose  conclusions 
are  widely  different  from  ours ;  and  we  are  thus  taught 
to  distrust  ourselves.  But  the  best  means  of  all  towards 
catholicity  is  that  wholesome  rule  which  some  folk  are 
most  inclined  to  condemn,— I  mean  the  law  of  obliged 
speeches.  Your  senior  member  commands;  and  you 
must  take  the  affirmative  or  the  negative,  just  as  suits 
his  best  convenience.  This  tends  to  the  most  perfect 
liberality.  It  is  no  good  hearing  the  arguments  of  an 
opponent,  for  in  good  verity  you  rarely  follow  them; 
and  even  if  you  do  take  the  trouble  to  listen,  it  is  merely 
in  a  captious  search  for  weaknesses.  This  is  proved, 
1  fear,  in  every  debate;  when  you  hear  each  speaker 
arguing  out  his  own  prepared  spicialiU  (he  never  in- 
tended speaking,  of  course,  until  some  remarks  of,  etc.), 
arguing  out,  I  say,  his  own  coached-up  subject  without 

43 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

the  least  attention  to  what  has  gone  before,  as  utterly 
at  sea  about  the  drift  of  his  adversary's  speech  as  Pa- 
nurge  when  he  argued  with  Thaumaste,  and  merely 
linking  his  own  prelection  to  the  last  by  a  few  flippant 
criticisms.  Now,  as  the  rule  stands,  you  are  saddled 
with  the  side  you  disapprove,  and  so  you  are  forced, 
by  regard  for  your  own  fame,  to  argue  out,  to  feel 
with,  to  elaborate  completely,  the  case  as  it  stands 
against  yourself;  and  what  a  fund  of  wisdom  do  you 
not  turn  up  in  this  idle  digging  of  the  vineyard!  How 
many  new  difficulties  take  form  before  your  eyes !  how 
many  superannuated  arguments  cripple  finally  into 
limbo,  under  the  glance  of  your  enforced  eclecticism ! 
Nor  is  this  the  only  merit  of  Debating  Societies. 
They  tend  also  to  foster  taste,  and  to  promote  friend- 
ship between  University  men.  This  last,  as  we  have 
had  occasion  before  to  say,  is  the  great  requirement  of 
our  student  life;  and  it  will  therefore  be  no  waste  of 
time  if  we  devote  a  paragraph  to  this  subject  in  its  con- 
nection with  Debating  Societies.  At  present  they  par- 
take too  much  of  the  nature  of  a  clique.  Friends  pro- 
pose friends,  and  mutual  friends  second  them,  until  the 
society  degenerates  into  a  sort  of  family  party.  You 
may  confirm  old  acquaintances,  but  you  can  rarely  make 
new  ones.  You  find  yourself  in  the  atmosphere  of 
your  own  daily  intercourse.  Now,  this  is  an  unfortu- 
nate circumstance,  which  it  seems  to  me  might  readily 
be  rectified.  Our  Principal  has  shown  himself  so 
friendly  towards  all  College  improvements  that  I  cherish 
the  hope  of  seeing  shortly  realised  a  certain  sugges- 
tion, which  is  not  a  new  one  with  me,  and  which  must 
often  have  been  proposed  and  canvassed  heretofore— I 


DEBATING  SOCIETIES 

mean,  a  real  University  Debating  Society ^  patronised  by 
the  Senatus,  presided  over  by  the  Professors,  to  which 
every  one  might  gain  ready  admittance  on  sight  of  his 
matriculation  ticket,  where  it  would  be  a  favour  and 
not  a  necessity  to  speak,  and  where  the  obscure  student 
might  have  another  object  for  attendance  besides  the 
mere  desire  to  save  his  fines:  to  wit,  the  chance  of 
drawing  on  himself  the  favourable  consideration  of  his 
teachers.  This  would  be  merely  following  in  the  good 
tendency,  which  has  been  so  noticeable  during  all  this 
session,  to  increase  and  multiply  student  societies  and 
clubs  of  every  sort.  Nor  would  it  be  a  matter  of  much 
difficulty.  The  united  societies  would  form  a  nucleus : 
one  of  the  class-rooms  at  first,  and  perhaps  afterwards 
the  great  hall  above  the  library,  might  be  the  place  of 
meeting.  There  would  be  no  want  of  attendance  or 
enthusiasm,  I  am  sure;  for  it  is  a  very  different  thing  to 
speak  under  the  bushel  of  a  private  club  on  the  one 
hand,  and,  on  the  other,  in  a  public  place,  where  a 
happy  period  or  a  subtle  argument  may  do  the  speaker 
permanent  service  in  after  life.  Such  a  club  might  end, 
perhaps,  by  rivalling  the  "  Union  "  at  Cambridge  or  the 
"Union  "at  Oxford. 


IV 

THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   UMBRELLAS* 

It  is  wonderful  to  think  what  a  turn  has  been  given 
to  our  whole  Society  by  the  fact  that  we  live  under 
the  sign  of  Aquarius,— that  our  climate  is  essentially 
wet.  A  mere  arbitrary  distinction,  like  the  walking- 
swords  of  yore,  might  have  remained  the  symbol  of 
foresight  and  respectability,  had  not  the  raw  mists  and 
dropping  showers  of  our  island  pointed  the  inclination 
of  Society  to  another  exponent  of  those  virtues.  A 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  or  a  string  of  medals 
may  prove  a  person's  courage;  a  title  may  prove  his 
birth;  a  professorial  chair  his  study  and  acquirement; 
but  it  is  the  habitual  carriage  of  the  umbrella  that  is  the 
stamp  of  Respectability.  The  umbrella  has  become  the 
acknowledged  index  of  social  position. 

Robinson  Crusoe  presents  us  with  a  touching  in- 
stance of  the  hankering  after  them  inherent  in  the  civi- 
lised and  educated  mind.  To  the  superficial,  the  hot 
suns  of  Juan  Fernandez  may  sufficiently  account  for  his 
quaint  choice  of  a  luxury ;  but  surely  one  who  had  borne 
the  hard  labour  of  a  seaman  under  the  tropics  for  all 

1  "  This  paper  was  written  in  collaboration  with  James  Walter  Ferrier, 
and  if  reprinted  this  is  to  be  stated,  though  his  principal  collaboration 
was  to  lie  back  in  an  easy-chair  and  laugh."— [R.  L.  S.,  Oct.  25,  1894.] 

46 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  UMBRELLAS 

these  years  could  have  supported  an  excursion  after 
goats  or  a  peaceful  constitutional  arm  in  arm  with  the 
nude  Friday.  No,  it  was  not  this :  the  memory  of  a 
vanished  respectability  called  for  some  outward  mani- 
festation, and  the  result  was— an  umbrella.  A  pious 
castaway  might  have  rigged  up  a  belfry  and  solaced  his 
Sunday  mornings  with  the  mimicry  of  church  bells; 
but  Crusoe  was  rather  a  moralist  than  a  pietist,  and  his 
leaf-umbrella  is  as  fine  an  example  of  the  civilised  mind 
striving  to  express  itself  under  adverse  circumstances  as 
we  have  ever  met  with. 

It  is  not  for  nothing,  either,  that  the  umbrella  has 
become  the  very  foremost  badge  of  modern  civilisation 
—the  Urim  and  Thummim  of  respectability.  Its  preg- 
nant symbolism  has  taken  its  rise  in  the  most  natural 
manner.  Consider,  for  a  moment,  when  umbrellas 
were  first  introduced  into  this  country,  what  manner  of 
men  would  use  them,  and  what  class  would  adhere  to 
the  useless  but  ornamental  cane.  The  first,  without 
doubt,  would  be  the  hypochondriacal,  out  of  solicitude 
for  their  health,  or  the  frugal,  out  of  care  for  their  rai- 
ment; the  second,  it  is  equally  plain,  would  include  the 
fop,  the  fool,  and  the  Bobadil.  Any  one  acquainted 
with  the  growth  of  Society,  and  knowing  out  of  what 
small  seeds  of  cause  are  produced  great  revolutions 
and  wholly  new  conditions  of  intercourse,  sees  from 
this  simple  thought  how  the  carriage  of  an  umbrella 
came  to  indicate  frugality,  judicious  regard  for  bodily 
welfare,  and  scorn  for  mere  outward  adornment,  and, 
in  one  word,  all  those  homely  and  solid  virtues  implied 
in  the  term  respectability.  Not  that  the  umbrella's 
costliness  has  nothing  to  do  with  its  great  influence. 

47 


COLLEGE  PAPERS 

Its  possession,  besides  symbolising  (as  we  have  already 
indicated)  the  change  from  wild  Esau  to  plain  Jacob 
dwelling  in  tents,  implies  a  certain  comfortable  provision 
of  fortune.  It  is  not  every  one  that  can  expose  twenty- 
six  shillings'  worth  of  property  to  so  many  chances  of 
loss  and  theft.  So  strongly  do  we  feel  on  this  point, 
indeed,  that  we  are  almost  inclined  to  consider  all  who 
possess  really  well-conditioned  umbrellas  as  worthy  of 
the  Franchise.  They  have  a  qualification  standing  in 
their  lobbies ;  they  carry  a  sufficient  stake  in  the  com- 
mon-weal below  their  arm.  One  who  bears  with  him 
an  umbrella— such  a  complicated  structure  of  whale- 
bone, of  silk,  and  of  cane,  that  it  becomes  a  very  micro- 
cosm of  modern  industry—is  necessarily  a  man  of 
peace.  A  half-crown  cane  may  be  applied  to  an  offend- 
er's head  on  a  very  moderate  provocation;  but  a  six- 
and-twenty  shilling  silk  is  a  possession  too  precious  to 
be  adventured  in  the  shock  of  war. 

These  are  but  a  few  glances  at  how  umbrellas  (in  the 
general)  came  to  their  present  high  estate.  But  the 
true  Umbrella-Philosopher  meets  with  far  stranger  ap- 
plications as  he  goes  about  the  streets. 

Umbrellas,  like  faces,  acquire  a  certain  sympathy 
with  the  individual  who  carries  them :  indeed,  they  are 
far  more  capable  of  betraying  his  trust;  for  whereas  a 
face  is  given  to  us  so  far  ready-made,  and  all  our  power 
over  it  is  in  frowning,  and  laughing,  and  grimacing, 
during  the  first  three  or  four  decades  of  life,  each  um- 
brella is  selected  from  a  whole  shopful,  as  being  most 
consonant  to  the  purchaser's  disposition.  An  undoubted 
power  of  diagnosis  rests  with  the  practised  Umbrella- 
Philosopher.     O  you  who  lisp,  and  amble,  and  change 

48 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  UMBRELLAS 

the  fashion  of  your  countenances— you  who  conceal  all 
these,  how  little  do  you  think  that  you  left  a  proof  of 
your  weakness  in  our  umbrella-stand— that  even  now, 
as  you  shake  out  the  folds  to  meet  the  thickening  snow, 
we  read  in  its  ivory  handle  the  outward  and  visible  sign 
of  your  snobbery,  or  from  the  exposed  gingham  of  its 
cover  detect,  through  coat  and  waistcoat,  the  hidden 
hypocrisy  of  the  dickey  I  But  alas!  even  the  um- 
brella is  no  certain  criterion.  The  falsity  and  the  folly 
of  the  human  race  have  degraded  that  graceful  symbol 
to  the  ends  of  dishonesty;  and  while  some  umbrellas, 
from  carelessness  in  selection,  are  not  strikingly  char- 
acteristic (for  it  is  only  in  what  a  man  loves  that  he 
displays  his  real  nature),  others,  from  certain  pruden- 
tial motives,  are  chosen  directly  opposite  to  the  per- 
son's disposition.  A  mendacious  umbrella  is  a  sign  of 
great  moral  degradation.  Hypocrisy  naturally  shelters 
itself  below  a  silk;  while  the  fast  youth  goes  to  visit 
his  religious  friends  armed  with  the  decent  and  repu- 
table gingham.  May  it  not  be  said  of  the  bearers  of 
these  inappropriate  umbrellas  that  they  go  about  the 
streets  "  with  a  lie  in  their  right  hand  "  ? 

The  king  of  Siam,  as  we  read,  besides  having  a 
graduated  social  scale  of  umbrellas  (which  was  a  good 
thing),  prevented  the  great  bulk  of  his  subjects  from 
having  any  at  all,  which  was  certainly  a  bad  thing. 
We  should  be  sorry  to  believe  that  this  Eastern  legisla- 
tor was  a  fool— the  idea  of  an  aristocracy  of  umbrellas 
is  too  philosophic  to  have  originated  in  a  nobody,— and 
we  have  accordingly  taken  exceeding  pains  to  find  out 
the  reason  of  this  harsh  restriction.  We  think  we  have 
succeeded;  but,  while  admiring  the  principle  at  which 

49 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

he  aimed,  and  while  cordially  recognising  in  the  Siamese 
potentate  the  only  man  before  ourselves  who  had  taken 
a  real  grasp  of  the  umbrella,  we  must  be  allowed  to 
point  out  how  unphilosophically  the  great  man  acted  in 
this  particular.  His  object,  plainly,  was  to  prevent  any 
unworthy  persons  from  bearing  the  sacred  symbol  of 
domestic  virtues.  We  cannot  excuse  his  limiting  these 
virtues  to  the  circle  of  his  court.  We  must  only  re- 
member that  such  was  the  feeling  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived.  Liberalism  had  not  yet  raised  the  war-cry  of 
the  working  classes.  But  here  was  his  mistake:  it  was 
a  needless  regulation.  Except  in  a  very  few  cases  of 
hypocrisy  joined  to  a  powerful  intellect,  men,  not  by 
nature  umbrellarmns,  have  tried  again  and  again  to  be- 
come so  by  art,  and  yet  have  failed— have  expended 
their  patrimony  in  the  purchase  of  umbrella  after  um- 
brella, and  yet  have  systematically  lost  them,  and  have 
finally,  with  contrite  spirits  and  shrunken  purses,  given 
up  their  vain  struggle,  and  relied  on  theft  and  bor- 
rowing for  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  This  is  the 
most  remarkable  fact  that  we  have  had  occasion  to 
notice;  and  yet  we  challenge  the  candid  reader  to  call 
it  in  question.  Now,  as  there  cannot  be  any  moral 
selection  in  a  mere  dead  piece  of  furniture— as  the 
umbrella  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  an  affinity  for 
individual  men  equal  and  reciprocal  to  that  which  men 
certainly  feel  towards  individual  umbrellas,— we  took 
the  trouble  of  consulting  a  scientific  friend  as  to  whether 
there  was  any  possible  physical  explanation  of  the 
phenomenon.  He  was  unable  to  supply  a  plausible 
theory,  or  even  hypothesis;  but  we  extract  from  his 
letter  the  following  interesting  passage  relative  to  the 

50 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  UMBRELLAS 

physical  peculiarities  of  umbrellas :  "  Not  the  least  im- 
portant, and  by  far  the  most  curious  property  of  the 
umbrella,  is  the  energy  which  it  displays  in  affecting 
the  atmospheric  strata.  There  is  no  fact  in  meteorology 
better  established— indeed,  it  is  almost  the  only  one  on 
which  meteorologists  are  agreed— than  that  the  carriage 
of  an  umbrella  produces  desiccation  of  the  air;  while  if 
it  be  left  at  home,  aqueous  vapour  is  largely  produced, 
and  is  soon  deposited  in  the  form  of  rain.  No  theory," 
my  friend  continues,  "competent  to  explain  this  hy- 
grometric  law  has  yet  been  given  (as  far  as  I  am  aware) 
by  Herschel,  Dove,  Glaisher,  Tait,  Buchan,  or  any  other 
writer;  nor  do  I  pretend  to  supply  the  defect.  I  ven- 
ture, however,  to  throw  out  the  conjecture  that  it  will 
be  ultimately  found  to  belong  to  the  same  class  of  nat- 
ural laws  as  that  agreeable  to  which  a  slice  of  toast 
always  descends  with  the  buttered  surface  downwards." 
But  it  is  time  to  draw  to  a  close.  We  could  expa- 
tiate much  longer  upon  this  topic,  but  want  of  space 
constrains  us  to  leave  unfinished  these  few  desultory 
remarks— slender  contributions  towards  a  subject  which 
has  fallen  sadly  backwards,  and  which,  we  grieve  to 
say,  was  better  understood  by  the  king  of  Siam  in  1686 
than  by  all  the  philosophers  of  to-day.  If,  however, 
we  have  awakened  in  any  rational  mind  an  interest  in 
the  symbolism  of  umbrellas— in  any  generous  heart  a 
more  complete  sympathy  with  the  dumb  companion  of 
his  daily  walk,— or  in  any  grasping  spirit  a  pure  notion 
of  respectability  strong  enough  to  make  him  expend  his 
six-and-twenty  shillings— we  shall  have  deserved  well 
of  the  world,  to  say  nothing  of  the  many  industrious 
persons  employed  in  the  manufacture  of  the  article. 

5» 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  NOMENCLATURE 

"  How  many  Caesars  and  Pompeys,  by  mere  inspirations  of  the  names, 
have  been  rendered  worthy  of  them  ?  And  how  many  are  there,  who 
might  have  done  exceeding  well  in  the  world,  had  not  their  characters 
and  spirits  been  totally  depressed  and  Nicodemus'd  into  nothing  ?  "— 
Tristram  Shandy^  vol.  i.  chap.  xix. 

Such  were  the  views  of  the  late  Walter  Shandy,  Esq., 
Turkey  merchant.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  Mr.  Shandy 
is  the  first  who  fairly  pointed  out  the  incalculable  influ- 
ence of  nomenclature  upon  the  whole  life— who  seems 
first  to  have  recognised  the  one  child,  happy  in  an  heroic 
appellation,  soaring  upwards  on  the  wings  of  fortune, 
and  the  other,  like  the  dead  sailor  in  his  shotted  ham- 
mock, haled  down  by  sheer  weight  of  name  into  the 
abysses  of  social  failure.  Solomon  possibly  had  his  eye 
on  some  such  theory  when  he  said  that  "  a  good  name 
is  better  than  precious  ointment " ;  and  perhaps  we  may 
trace  a  similar  spirit  in  the  compilers  of  the  English 
Catechism,  and  the  affectionate  interest  with  which 
they  linger  round  the  catechumen's  name  at  the  very 
threshold  of  their  work.  But,  be  these  as  they  may,  I 
think  no  one  can  censure  me  for  appending,  in  pursu- 
ance of  the  expressed  wish  of  his  son,  the  Turkey 
merchant's  name  to  his  system,  and  pronouncing,  with- 

52 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  NOMENCLATURE 

out  further  preface,  a  short  epitome  of  the  Shandean 
Philosophy  of  Nomenclature. 

To  begin,  then:  the  influence  of  our  name  makes 
itself  felt  from  the  very  cradle.  As  a  schoolboy  I  re- 
member the  pride  with  which  I  hailed  Robin  Hood, 
Robert  Bruce,  and  Robert  le  Diable  as  my  name-fellows ; 
and  the  feeling  of  sore  disappointment  that  fell  on  my 
heart  when  I  found  a  freebooter  or  a  general  who  did 
not  share  with  me  a  single  one  of  my  numerous  prce- 
nomina.  Look  at  the  delight  with  which  two  children 
find  they  have  the  same  name.  They  are  friends  from 
that  moment  forth ;  they  have  a  bond  of  union  stronger 
than  exchange  of  nuts  and  sweetmeats.  This  feeling, 
I  own,  wears  off  in  later  life.  Our  names  lose  their 
freshness  and  interest,  become  trite  and  indifferent. 
But  this,  dear  reader,  is  merely  one  of  the  sad  effects  of 
those  "  shades  of  the  prison-house  "  which  come  gradu- 
ally betwixt  us  and  nature  with  advancing  years;  it 
affords  no  weapon  against  the  philosophy  of  names. 

In  after  life,  although  we  fail  to  trace  its  working, 
that  name  which  careless  godfathers  lightly  applied  to 
your  unconscious  infancy  will  have  been  moulding  your 
character,  and  influencing  with  irresistible  power  the 
whole  course  of  your  earthly  fortunes.  But  the  last 
name,  overlooked  by  Mr.  Shandy,  is  no  whit  less  im- 
portant as  a  condition  of  success.  Family  names,  we 
must  recollect,  are  but  inherited  nicknames ;  and  if  the 
sobriquet  were  applicable  to  the  ancestor,  it  is  most 
likely  applicable  to  the  descendant  also.  You  would 
not  expect  to  find  Mr.  MThun  acting  as  a  mute,  or  Mr. 
M'Lumpha  excelling  as  a  professor  of  dancing.  There- 
fore, in  what  follows,  we  shall  consider  names,  inde- 

53 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

pendent  of  whether  they  are  first  or  last.  And  to  begin 
with,  look  what  a  pull  Cromwell  had  over  Pvw— the 
one  name  full  of  a  resonant  imperialism,  the  other, 
mean,  pettifogging,  and  unheroic  to  a  degree.  Who 
would  expect  eloquence  from  Pvw— who  would  read 
poems  by  Pym—v^ho  would  bow  to  the  opinion  of 
Pym?  He  might  have  been  a  dentist,  but  he  should 
never  have  aspired  to  be  a  statesman.  I  can  only  won- 
der that  he  succeeded  as  he  did.  Pym  and  Habakkuk 
stand  first  upon  the  roll  of  men  who  have  triumphed, 
by  sheer  force  of  genius,  over  the  most  unfavourable 
appellations.  But  even  these  have  suffered;  and,  had 
they  been  more  fitly  named,  the  one  might  have  been 
Lord  Protector,  and  the  other  have  shared  the  laurels 
with  Isaiah.  In  this  matter  we  must  not  forget  that  all 
our  great  poets  have  borne  great  names.  Chaucer, 
Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Pope,  Wordsworth, 
Shelley— what  a  constellation  of  lordly  words!  Not  a 
single  commonplace  name  among  them— not  a  Brown, 
not  a  Jones,  not  a  Robinson;  they  are  all  names  that 
one  would  stop  and  look  at  on  a  door-plate.  Now, 
imagine  if  Pepys  had  tried  to  clamber  somehow  into 
the  enclosure  of  poetry,  what  a  blot  would  that  word 
have  made  upon  the  list!  The  thing  was  impossible. 
In  the  first  place,  a  certain  natural  consciousness  that  men 
have  would  have  held  him  down  to  the  level  of  his  name, 
would  have  prevented  him  from  rising  above  the  Pep- 
sine  standard,  and  so  haply  withheld  him  altogether 
from  attempting  verse.  Next,  the  booksellers  would 
refuse  to  publish,  and  the  world  to  read  them,  on  the 
mere  evidence  of  the  fatal  appellation.  And  now,  be- 
fore I  close  this  section,  I  must  say  one  word  as  to 

54 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  NOMENCLATURE 

punnable  names,  names  that  stand  alone,  that  have  a 
significance  and  h'fe  apart  from  him  that  bears  them. 
These  are  the  bitterest  of  all.  One  friend  of  mine  goes 
bowed  and  humbled  through  life  under  the  weight  of 
this  misfortune;  for  it  is  an  awful  thing  when  a  man's 
name  is  a  joke,  when  he  cannot  be  mentioned  without 
exciting  merriment,  and  when  even  the  intimation  of 
his  death  bids  fair  to  carry  laughter  into  many  a  home. 

So  much  for  people  who  are  badly  named.  Now 
for  people  who  are  too  well  named,  who  go  top-heavy 
from  the  font,  who  are  baptised  into  a  false  position, 
and  find  themselves  beginning  life  eclipsed  under  the 
fame  of  some  of  the  great  ones  of  the  past.  A  man,  for 
instance,  called  William  Shakespeare  could  never  dare 
to  write  plays.  He  is  thrown  into  too  humbling  an 
apposition  with  the  author  of  Hamlet.  His  own  name 
coming  after  is  such  an  anticlimax.  "The  plays  of 
William  Shakespeare  >  "  says  the  reader—"  O  no!  The 
plays  of  William  Shakespeare  Cockerill,"  and  he  throws 
the  book  aside.  In  wise  pursuance  of  such  views,  Mr. 
John  Milton  Hengler,  who  not  long  since  delighted  us 
in  this  favoured  town,  has  never  attempted  to  write  an 
epic,  but  has  chosen  a  new  path,  and  has  excelled  upon 
the  tight-rope.  A  marked  example  of  triumph  over  this 
is  the  case  of  Mr.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  On  the  face 
of  the  matter,  I  should  have  advised  him  to  imitate  the 
pleasing  modesty  of  the  last-named  gentleman,  and 
confine  his  ambition  to  the  sawdust.  But  Mr.  Rossetti 
has  triumphed.  He  has  even  dared  to  translate  from 
his  mighty  name-father;  and  the  voice  of  fame  supports 
him  in  his  boldness. 

Dear  readers,  one  might  write  a  year  upon  this  mat- 
55 


COLLEGE   PAPERS 

ter.  A  lifetime  of  comparison  and  research  could  scarce 
suffice  for  its  elucidation.  So  here,  if  it  please  you,  we 
shall  let  it  rest.  Slight  as  these  notes  have  been,  I 
would  that  the  great  founder  of  the  system  had  been 
alive  to  see  them.  How  he  had  warmed  and  brightened, 
how  his  persuasive  eloquence  would  have  fallen  on  the 
ears  of  Toby;  and  what  a  letter  of  praise  and  sympathy 
would  not  the  editor  have  received  before  the  month 
was  out !  Alas !  the  thing  was  not  to  be.  Walter  Shandy 
died  and  was  duly  buried,  while  yet  his  theory  lay  forgot- 
ten and  neglected  by  his  fellow-countrymen.  But,  reader, 
the  day  will  come,  I  hope,  when  a  paternal  government 
will  stamp  out,  as  seeds  of  national  weakness,  all  de- 
pressing patronymics,  and  when  godfathers  and  god- 
mothers will  soberly  and  earnestly  debate  the  interest 
of  the  nameless  one,  and  not  rush  blindfold  to  the 
christening.  In  these  days  there  shall  be  written  a 
Godfather's  Assistant,  in  shape  of  a  dictionary  of 
names,  with  their  concomitant  virtues  and  vices;  and 
this  book  shall  be  scattered  broadcast  through  the  land, 
and  shall  be  on  the  table  of  every  one  eligible  for  god- 
fathership,  until  such  a  thing  as  a  vicious  or  untoward 
appellation  shall  have  ceased  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth. 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

CHIEFLY  OF  THE  ROAD 


Previously  published : 

III.  Portfolio,  November,  iSyj. 

IV.  Ibid.,  August,  i8y4. 

V.  Ibid.,  November,  1874. 
VI.  Ibid.,  April  and  May,  i8y^. 
VII.  (posthumously)  Illustrated  London  News,  Summer 

Number,  1896. 
VIII.  Cornhill  Magazine,  May,  1876. 

IX.  {posthumously)  The  Studio,  Winter  Number,  1896. 
Nos.  I.  and  11.  are  printed  from  the  Author's  MSS.for  the 
first  time. 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

CHIEFLY  OF  THE   ROAD 

I 

A  RETROSPECT 

{j4  Fragment :  written  at  Dunoon,  tSjo) 

IF  there  is  anything  that  delights  me  in  Hazlitt,  be- 
yond the  charm  of  style  and  the  unconscious  portrait 
of  a  vain  and  powerful  spirit  which  his  works  present, 
it  is  the  loving  and  tender  way  in  which  he  returns 
again  to  the  memory  of  the  past.  These  little  recollec- 
tions of  bygone  happiness  were  too  much  a  part  of  the 
man  to  be  carelessly  or  poorly  told.  The  imaginary 
landscapes  and  visions  of  the  most  ecstatic  dreamer  can 
never  rival  such  recollections,  told  simply  perhaps,  but 
still  told  (as  they  could  not  fail  to  be)  with  precision, 
delicacy,  and  evident  delight.  They  are  too  much 
loved  by  the  author  not  to  be  palated  by  the  reader. 
But  beyond  the  mere  felicity  of  pencil,  the  nature  of 
the  piece  could  never  fail  to  move  my  heart.  When  I 
read  his  essay  "On  the  Past  and  Future,"  every  word 
seemed  to  be  something  I  had  said  myself.  I  could 
have  thought  he  had  been  eavesdropping  at  the  door 
of  my  heart,  so  entire  was  the  coincidence  between  his 

59 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

writing  and  my  thought.  It  is  a  sign  perhaps  of  a 
somewhat  vain  disposition.  The  future  is  nothing;  but 
the  past  is  myself,  my  own  history,  the  seed  of  my 
present  thoughts,  the  mould  of  my  present  disposi- 
tion. It  is  not  in  vain  that  I  return  to  the  nothings 
of  my  childhood;  for  every  one  of  them  has  left  some 
stamp  upon  me  or  put  some  fetter  on  my  boasted  free- 
will. In  the  past  is  my  present  fate;  and  in  the  past 
also  is  my  real  life.  It  is  not  the  past  only,  but  the 
past  that  has  been  many  years  in  that  tense.  The 
doings  and  actions  of  last  year  are  as  uninteresting  and 
vague  to  me  as  the  blank  gulf  of  the  future,  the  tabula 
rasa  that  may  never  be  anything  else.  I  remember  a 
confused  hotch-potch  of  unconnected  events,  a ''  chaos 
without  form,  and  void  " ;  but  nothing  salient  or  strik- 
ing rises  from  the  dead  level  of  "  flat,  stale,  and  unprofit- 
able "  generality.  When  we  are  looking  at  a  landscape 
we  think  ourselves  pleased ;  but  it  is  only  when  it  comes 
back  upon  us  by  the  fire  o'  nights  that  we  can  disentan- 
gle the  main  charm  from  the  thick  of  particulars.  It  is 
just  so  with  what  is  lately  past.  It  is  too  much  loaded 
with  detail  to  be  distinct;  and  the  canvas  is  too  large 
for  the  eye  to  encompass.  But  this  is  no  more  the  case 
when  our  recollections  have  been  strained  long  enough 
through  the  hour-glass  of  time;  when  they  have  been 
the  burthen  of  so  much  thought,  the  charm  and  com- 
fort of  so  many  a  vigil.  All  that  is  worthless  has  been 
sieved  and  sifted  out  of  them.  Nothing  remains  but 
the  brightest  lights  and  the  darkest  shadows.  When 
we  see  a  mountain  country  near  at  hand,  the  spurs  and 
haunches  crowd  up  in  eager  rivalry,  and  the  whole 
range  seems  to  have  shrugged  its  shoulders  to  its  ears, 

60 


A  RETROSPECT 

till  we  cannot  tell  the  higher  from  the  lower:  but  when 
we  are  far  off,  these  lesser  prominences  are  melted  back 
into  the  bosom  of  the  rest,  or  have  set  behind  the  round 
horizon  of  the  plain,  and  the  highest  peaks  stand  forth 
in  lone  and  sovereign  dignity  against  the  sky.  It  is 
just  the  same  with  our  recollections.  We  require  to 
draw  back  and  shade  our  eyes  before  the  picture  dawns 
upon  us  in  full  breadth  and  outline.  Late  years  are  still 
in  limbo  to  us;  but  the  more  distant  past  is  all  that  we 
possess  in  life,  the  corn  already  harvested  and  stored 
for  ever  in  the  grange  of  memory.  The  doings  of  to- 
day at  some  future  time  will  gain  the  required  offing;  I 
shall  learn  to  love  the  things  of  my  adolescence,  as 
Hazlitt  loved  them,  and  as  I  love  already  the  recollec- 
tions of  my  childhood.  They  will  gather  interest  with 
every  year.  They  will  ripen  in  forgotten  corners  of  my 
memory;  and  some  day  I  shall  waken  and  find  them 
vested  with  new  glory  and  new  pleasantness. 

It  is  for  stirring  the  chords  of  memory,  then,  that  I 
love  Hazlitt's  essays,  and  for  the  same  reason  (I  remem- 
ber) he  himself  threw  in  his  allegiance  to  Rousseau, 
saying  of  him,  what  was  so  true  of  his  own  writings : 
"  He  seems  to  gather  up  the  past  moments  of  his  being 
like  drops  of  honey-dew  to  distil  some  precious  liquor 
from  them;  his  alternate  pleasures  and  pains  are  the 
bead-roll  that  he  tells  over  and  piously  worships;  he 
makes  a  rosary  of  the  flowers  of  hope  and  fancy  that 
strewed  his  earliest  years."  How  true  are  these  words 
when]  applied  to  himself!  and  how  much  I  thank  him 
that  it  was  so!  All  my  childhood  is  a  golden  age  to 
me.  I  have  no  recollection  of  bad  weather.  Except 
one  or  two  storms  where  grandeur  had  impressed  itself 

6i 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

on  my  mind,  the  whole  time  seems  steeped  in  sunshine. 
"£/  ego  in  Arcadia  vixi"  would  be  no  empty  boast 
upon  my  grave.  If  I  desire  to  live  long,  it  is  that  I  may 
have  the  more  to  look  back  upon.  Even  to  one,  like 
the  unhappy  Duchess, 

"  Acquainted  with  sad  misery 
As  the  tamed  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar," 

and  seeing  over  the  night  of  troubles  no  "  lily-wristed 
morn  "  of  hope  appear,  a  retrospect  of  even  chequered 
and  doubtful  happiness  in  the  past  may  sweeten  the 
bitterness  of  present  tears.  And  here  I  may  be  excused 
if  I  quote  a  passage  from  an  unpublished  drama  (the 
unpublished  is  perennial,  I  fancy)  which  the  author  be- 
lieved was  not  all  devoid  of  the  flavour  of  our  elder 
dramatists.  However  this  may  be,  it  expresses  better 
than  I  could  some  further  thoughts  on  this  same  sub- 
ject. The  heroine  is  taken  by  a  minister  to  the  grave, 
where  already  some  have  been  recently  buried,  and 
where  her  sister's  lover  is  destined  to  rejoin  them  on 
the  following  day.^ 

What  led  me  to  the  consideration  of  this  subject,  and 
what  has  made  me  take  up  my  pen  to-night,  is  the  rather 
strange  coincidence  of  two  very  different  accidents— a 
prophecy  of  my  future  and  a  return  into  my  past.  No 
later  than  yesterday,  seated  in  the  coffee-room  here, 
there  came  into  the  tap  of  the  hotel  a  poor  mad  High- 
land woman.  The  noise  of  her  strained,  thin  voice 
brought  me  out  to  see  her.     I  could  conceive  that  she 

1  The  quotation  here  promised  from  one  of  the  Author's  own  early 
dramatic  efforts  (a  tragedy  of  Semiramis)  is  not  supplied  in  the  MS.  —[Ed.] 

62 


A  RETROSPECT 

had  been  pretty  once,  but  that  was  many  years  ago. 
She  was  now  withered  and  fallen-looking.  Her  hair 
was  thin  and  straggling,  her  dress  poor  and  scanty. 
Her  moods  changed  as  rapidly  as  a  weather-cock  before 
a  thunder-storm.  One  moment  she  said  her  "  mutch  " 
was  the  only  thing  that  gave  her  comfort,  and  the  next 
she  slackened  the  strings  and  let  it  back  upon  her  neck, 
in  a  passion  at  it  for  making  her  too  hot.  Her  talk 
was  a  wild,  somewhat  weird,  farrago  of  utterly  mean- 
ingless balderdash,  mere  inarticulate  gabble,  snatches  of 
old  Jacobite  ballads  and  exaggerated  phrases  from  the 
drama,  to  which  she  suited  equally  exaggerated  action. 
She  "babbled  of  green  fields  "and  Highland  glens;  she 
prophesied  "  the  drawing  of  the  claymore,"  with  a  lofty 
disregard  of  cause  or  common-sense;  and  she  broke  out 
suddenly,  with  uplifted  hands  and  eyes,  into  ecstatic 
"  Heaven  bless  hims !"  and  "  Heaven  forgive  hims ! "  She 
had  been  a  camp-follower  in  her  younger  days,  and  she 
was  never  tired  of  expatiating  on  the  gallantry,  the  fame, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  42nd  Highlanders.  Her  patriot- 
ism knew  no  bounds,  and  her  prolixity  was  much  on 
the  same  scale.  This  Witch  of  Endor  offered  to  tell  my 
fortune,  with  much  dignity  and  proper  oracular  enun- 
ciation. But  on  my  holding  forth  my  hand  a  somewhat 
ludicrous  incident  occurred.  "  Na,  na, "  she  said ;  "  wait 
till  I  have  a  draw  of  my  pipe."  Down  she  sat  in  the 
corner,  puffmg  vigorously  and  regaling  the  lady  behind 
the  counter  with  conversation  more  remarkable  for 
stinging  satire  than  prophetic  dignity.  The  person  in 
question  had  "  mair  weeg  than  hair  on  her  head  "  (did 
not  the  chignon  plead  guilty  at  these  words  ?)— "  wad 
be  better  if  she  had  less  tongue"— and  would  come  at 

63 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

last  to  the  grave,  a  goal  which,  in  a  few  words,  she 
invested  with  "  warning  circumstance"  enough  to  make 
a  Stoic  shudder.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this,  she 
rose  up  and  beckoned  me  to  approach.  The  oracles  of 
my  Highland  sorceress  had  no  claim  to  consideration 
except  in  the  matter  of  obscurity.  In  "  question  hard 
and  sentence  intricate"  she  beat  the  priests  of  Delphi; 
in  bold,  unvarnished  falsity  (as  regards  the  past)  even 
spirit-rapping  was  a  child  to  her.  All  that  I  could  gather 
may  be  thus  summed  up  shortly:  that  I  was  to  visit 
America,  that  I  was  to  be  very  happy,  and  that  I  was 
to  be  much  upon  the  sea,  predictions  which,  in  consid- 
eration of  an  uneasy  stomach,  I  can  scarcely  think 
agreeable  with  one  another.  Two  incidents  alone  re- 
lieved the  dead  level  of  idiocy  and  incomprehensible 
gabble.  The  first  was  the  comical  announcement  that 
"  when  I  drew  fish  to  the  Marquis  of  Bute,  I  should  take 
care  of  my  sweetheart,"  from  which  I  deduce  the  fact 
that  at  some  period  of  my  life  I  shall  drive  a  fishmon- 
ger's cart.  The  second,  in  the  middle  of  such  nonsense, 
had  a  touch  of  the  tragic.  She  suddenly  looked  at  me 
with  an  eager  glance,  and  dropped  my  hand,  saying,  in 
what  were  tones  of  misery  or  a  very  good  affectation 
of  them,  "Black  eyes!  "  A  moment  after  she  was  at 
work  again.  It  is  as  well  to  mention  that  I  have  not 
black  eyes.i 
This  incident,  strangely  blended  of  the  pathetic  and 

1  "  The  old  pythoness  was  right,"  adds  the  Author  in  a  note  appended 
to  his  MS.  in  1 887 ;  "  I  have  been  happy :  I  did  go  to  America  (am  even 

going  again— unless ):  and  I  have  been  twice  and  once  upon  the 

deep."    The  seafaring  part  of  the  prophecy  remained  to  be  fulfilled  on  a 
far  more  extended  scale  in  his  Pacific  voyages  of  1888-90.— [Ed.] 

64 


A   RETROSPECT 

the  ludicrous,  set  my  mind  at  work  upon  the  future; 
but  I  could  find  little  interest  in  the  study.  Even  the 
predictions  of  my  sibyl  failed  to  allure  me,  nor  could 
life's  prospect  charm  and  detain  my  attention  like  its 
retrospect. 

Not  far  from  Dunoon  is  Rosemore,  a  house  in  which  I 
had  spent  a  week  or  so  in  my  very  distant  childhood, 
how  distant  I  have  no  idea;  and  one  may  easily  conceive 
how  I  looked  forward  to  revisiting  this  place  and  so 
renewing  contact  with  my  former  self.  I  was  under 
necessity  to  be  early  up,  and  under  necessity  also,  in 
the  teeth  of  a  bitter  spring  north-easter,  to  clothe  my- 
self warmly  on  the  morning  of  my  long-promised  ex- 
cursion. The  day  was  as  bright  as  it  was  cold.  Vast 
irregular  masses  of  white  and  purple  cumulus  drifted 
rapidly  over  the  sky.  The  great  hills,  brown  with  the 
bloomless  heather,  were  here  and  there  buried  in  blue 
shadows,  and  streaked  here  and  there  with  sharp  stripes 
of  sun.  The  new-fired  larches  were  green  in  the  glens ; 
and  "  pale  primroses  "  hid  themselves  in  mossy  hollows 
and  under  hawthorn  roots.  All  these  things  were  new 
to  me;  for  I  had  noticed  none  of  these  beauties  in  my 
younger  days,  neither  the  larch  woods,  nor  the  winding 
road  edged  in  between  field  and  flood,  nor  the  broad, 
ruffled  bosom  of  the  hill-surrounded  loch.  It  was, 
above  all,  the  height  of  these  hills  that  astonished  me. 
I  remember  the  existence  of  hills,  certainly,  but  the  pic- 
ture in  my  memory  was  low,  featureless,  and  uninter- 
esting. They  seemed  to  have  kept  pace  with  me  in  my 
growth,  but  to  a  gigantic  scale;  and  the  villas  that  I 
remembered  as  half-way  up  the  slope  seemed  to  have 
been  left  behind  like  myself,  and  now  only  ringed  their 

65 


NOTES  AND    ESSAYS 

mighty  feet,  white  among  the  newly  kindled  woods. 
As  I  felt  myself  on  the  road  at  last  that  I  had  been 
dreaming  of  for  these  many  days  before,  a  perfect  in- 
toxication of  joy  took  hold  upon  me ;  and  I  was  so  pleased 
at  my  own  happiness  that  I  could  let  none  past  me  till 
I  had  taken  them  into  my  confidence.  I  asked  my  way 
from  every  one,  and  took  good  care  to  let  them  all 
know,  before  they  left  me,  what  my  object  was,  and 
how  many  years  had  elapsed  since  my  last  visit.  I 
wonder  what  the  good  folk  thought  of  me  and  my 
communications. 

At  last,  however,  after  much  inquiry,  I  arrive  at  the 
place,  make  my  peace  with  the  gardener,  and  enter.  My 
disillusion  dates  from  the  opening  of  the  garden  door. 
I  repine,  I  find  a  reluctation  of  spirit  against  believing 
that  this  is  the  place.  What,  is  this  kailyard  that  inex- 
haustible paradise  of  a  garden  in  which  M and  I 

found  "  elbow-room,"  and  expatiated  together  without 
sensible  constraint  ?  Is  that  little  tufted  slope  the  huge 
and  perilous  green  bank  down  which  I  counted  it  a 
feat,  and  the  gardener  a  sin,  to  run  ?  Are  these  two 
squares  of  stone,  some  two  feet  high,  the  pedestals  on 
which  I  walked  with  such  a  penetrating  sense  of  dizzy 
elevation,  and  which  I  had  expected  to  find  on  a  level 
with  my  eyes  ?  Ay,  the  place  is  no  more  like  what  I 
expected  than  this  bleak  April  day  is  like  the  glorious 
September  with  which  it  is  incorporated  in  my  mem- 
ory. I  look  at  the  gardener,  disappointment  in  my  face, 
and  tell  him  that  the  place  seems  sorrily  shrunken  from 
the  high  estate  that  it  had  held  in  my  remembrance, 
and  he  returns,  with  quiet  laughter,  by  asking  me  how 
long  it  is  since  I  was  there.     I  tell  him,  and  he  remem- 

66 


A  RETROSPECT 

bers  me.  Ah  I  I  say,  I  was  a  great  nuisance,  I  believe. 
But  no,  my  good  gardener  will  plead  guilty  to  having 
kept  no  record  of  my  evil-doings,  and  I  find  myself 
much  softened  towards  the  place  and  willing  to  take  a 
kinder  view  and  pardon  its  shortcomings  for  the  sake 
of  the  gardener  and  his  pretended  recollection  of  myself. 
And  it  is  just  at  this  stage  (to  complete  my  re-establish- 
ment) that  I  see  a  little  boy— the  gardener's  grandchild 
—just  about  the  same  age  and  the  same  height  that  I 
must  have  been  in  the  days  when  I  was  here  last.  My 
first  feeling  is  one  of  almost  anger,  to  see  him  playing 
on  the  gravel  where  I  had  played  before,  as  if  he  had 
usurped  something  of  my  identity;  but  next  moment  I 
feel  a  softening  and  a  sort  of  rising  and  qualm  of  the 
throat,  accompanied  by  a  pricking  heat  in  the  eyeballs. 
1  hastily  join  conversation  with  the  child,  and  inwardly 
felicitate  myself  that  the  gardener  is  opportunely  gone 
for  the  key  of  the  house.  But  the  child  is  a  sort  of 
homily  to  me.  He  is  perfectly  quiet  and  resigned,  an 
unconscious  hermit.  I  ask  him  jocularly  if  he  gets  as 
much  abused  as  I  used  to  do  for  running  down  the 
bank;  but  the  child's  perfect  seriousness  of  answer 
staggers  me—"  O  no,  grandpapa  does  n't  allow  it— why 
should  he?  "  I  feel  caught:  I  stand  abashed  at  the  re- 
proof: I  must  not  expose  my  childishness  again  to  this 
youthful  disciplinarian,  and  so  I  ask  him  very  stately 
what  he  is  going  to  be— a  good  serious  practical  ques- 
tion, out  of  delicacy  for  his  parts.  He  answers  that  he 
is  going  to  be  a  missionary  to  China,  and  tells  me  how 
a  missionary  once  took  him  on  his  knee  and  told  him 
about  missionary  work,  and  asked  him  if  he,  too,  would 
not  like  to  become  one,  to  which  the  child  had  simply 

67 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

answered  in  the  affirmative.  The  child  is  altogether  so 
different  from  what  I  have  been,  is  so  absolutely  comple- 
mentary to  what  I  now  am,  that  I  turn  away  not  a  little 
abashed  from  the  conversation,  for  there  is  always 
something  painful  in  sudden  contact  with  the  good 
qualities  that  we  do  not  possess.  Just  then  the  grand- 
father returns ;  and  I  go  with  him  to  the  sumn^r-house, 
where  I  used  to  learn  my  Catechism,  to  the  wall  which 

M and  I  thought  it  no  small  exploit  to  walk  upon, 

and  all  the  other  places  that  I  remembered. 

In  fine,  the  matter  being  ended,  I  turn  and  go  my  way 
home  to  the  hotel,  where,  in  the  cold  afternoon,  I  write 
these  notes  with  the  table  and  chair  drawn  as  near  the 
fire  as  the  rug  and  the  French  polish  will  permit. 

One  other  thing  I  may  as  well  make  a  note  of,  and  that 
is  how  there  arises  that  strange  contradiction  of  the  hills 
being  higher  than  I  had  expected,  and  everything  near 
at  hand  being  so  ridiculously  smaller.  This  is  a  ques- 
tion I  think  easily  answered:  the  very  terms  of  the 
problem  suggest  the  solution.  To  everything  near  at 
hand  I  applied  my  own  stature,  as  a  sort  of  natural  unit 
of  measurement,  so  that  I  had  no  actual  image  of  their 
dimensions  but  their  ratio  to  myself;  so,  of  course,  as 
one  term  of  the  proportion  changed,  the  other  changed 
likewise,  and  as  my  own  height  increased  my  notion 
of  things  near  at  hand  became  equally  expanded.  But 
the  hills,  mark  you,  were  out  of  my  reach :  I  could  not 
apply  myself  to  them :  I  had  an  actual,  instead  of  a  pro- 
portional eidolon  of  their  magnitude;  so  that,  of  course 
(my  eye  being  larger  and  flatter  nowadays,  and  so  the 
image  presented  to  me  then  being  in  sober  earnest 
smaller  than  the  image  presented  to  me  now),  I  found 

68 


A   RETROSPECT 

the  hills  nearly  as  much  too.  great  as  I  had  found  the 
other  things  too  small. 

[y4dded  the  next  morw/w^.]— He  who  indulges  habitu- 
ally in  the  intoxicating  pleasures  of  imagination,  for  the 
very  reason  that  he  reaps  a  greater  pleasure  than  others, 
must  resign  himself  to  a  keener  pain,  a  more  intolerable 
and  utter  prostration.  It  is  quite  possible,  and  even 
comparatively  easy,  so  to  enfold  oneself  in  pleasant 
fancies  that  the  realities  of  life  may  seem  but  as  the 
white  snow-shower  in  the  street,  that  only  gives  a  rel- 
ish to  the  swept  hearth  and  lively  fire  within.  By  such 
means  I  have  forgotten  hunger,  I  have  sometimes  eased 
pain,  and  I  have  invariably  changed  into  the  most  pleas- 
ant hours  of  the  day  those  very  vacant  and  idle  seasons 
which  would  otherwise  have  hung  most  heavily  upon 
my  hand.  But  all  this  is  attained  by  the  undue  prom- 
inence of  purely  imaginative  joys,  and  consequently  the 
weakening  and  almost  the  destruction  of  reality.  This 
is  buying  at  too  great  a  price.  There  are  seasons  when 
the  imagination  becomes  somehow  tranced  and  sur- 
feited, as  it  is  with  me  this  morning;  and  then  upon  what 
can  we  fall  back  }  The  very  faculty  that  we  have  fos- 
tered and  trusted  has  failed  us  in  the  hour  of  trial;  and 
we  have  so  blunted  and  enfeebled  our  appetite  for  the 
others  that  they  are  subjectively  dead  to  us.  It  is  just 
as  though  a  farmer  should  plant  all  his  fields  in  potatoes, 
instead  of  varying  them  with  grain  and  pasture;  and  so, 
when  the  disease  comes,  lose  all  his  harvest,  while  his 
neighbours,  perhaps^  may  balance  the  profit  and  the  loss. 
Do  not  suppose  that  I  am  exaggerating  when  I  talk 
about  all  pleasures  seeming  stale.     To  me,  at  least,  the 

69 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

edge  of  almost  everything  is  put  on  by  imagination; 
and  even  nature,  in  these  days  when  the  fancy  is  drugged 
and  useless,*  wants  half  the  charm  it  has  in  better  mo- 
ments. 1  can  no  longer  see  satyrs  in  the  thicket,  or 
picture  a  highwayman  riding  down  the  lane.  The  fiat 
of  indifference  has  gone  forth :  I  am  vacant,  unprofitable : 
a  leaf  on  a  river  with  no  volition  and  no  aim :  a  mental 
drunkard  the  morning  after  an  intellectual  debauch. 
Yes;  I  have  a  more  subtle  opium  in  my  own  mind  than 
any  apothecary's  drug;  but  it  has  a  sting  of  its  own, 
and  leaves  me  as  flat  and  helpless  as  does  the  other. 


II 

COCKERMOUTH   AND   KESWICK 
(y4  Fragment :  i8ji) 

Very  much  as  a  painter  half  closes  his  eyes  so  that 
some  salient  unity  may  disengage  itself  from  among  the 
crowd  of  details,  and  what  he  sees  may  thus  form  itself 
into  a  whole;  very  much  on  the  same  principle,  I  may 
say,  I  allow  a  considerable  lapse  of  time  to  intervene 
between  any  of  my  little  journeyings  and  the  attempt  to 
chronicle  them.  I  cannot  describe  a  thing  that  is  before 
me  at  the  moment,  or  that  has  been  before  me  only  a 
very  little  while  before;  I  must  allow  my  recollections 
to  get  thoroughly  strained  free  from  all  chaff  till  nothing 
be  except  the  pure  gold ;  allow  my  memory  to  choose 
out  what  is  truly  memorable  by  a  process  of  natural 
selection ;  and  I  piously  believe  that  in  this  way  I  ensure 
the  Survival  of  the  Fittest.  If  I  make  notes  for  future 
use,  or  if  I  am  obliged  to  write  letters  during  the  course 
of  my  little  excursion,  I  so  interfere  with  the  process 
that  I  can  never  again  find  out  what  is  worthy  of  being 
preserved,  or  what  should  be  given  in  full  length,  what 
in  torso,  or  what  merely  in  profile.  This  process  of 
incubation  may  be  unreasonably  prolonged;  and  I  am 
somewhat  afraid  that  I  have  made  this  mistake  with  the 

71 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

present  journey.  Like  a  bad  daguerreotype,  great  part 
of  it  has  been  entirely  lost ;  I  can  tell  you  nothing  about 
the  beginning  and  nothing  about  the  end;  but  the 
doings  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  hours  about  the  middle 
remain  quite  distinct  and  definite,  like  a  little  patch  of 
sunshine  on  a  long,  shadowy  plain,  or  the  one  spot  on 
an  old  picture  that  has  been  restored  by  the  dexterous 
hand  of  the  cleaner.  I  remember  a  tale  of  an  old  Scots 
minister,  called  upon  suddenly  to  preach,  who  had 
hastily  snatched  an  old  sermon  out  of  his  study  and 
found  himself  in  the  pulpit  before  he  noticed  that  the 
rats  had  been  making  free  with  his  manuscript  and 
eaten  the  first  two  or  three  pages  away ;  he  gravely  ex- 
plained to  the  congregation  how  he  found  himself  situ- 
ated; "  And  now,"  said  he,  "  let  us  just  begin  where  the 
rats  have  left  off."  I  must  follow  the  divine's  example, 
and  take  up  the  thread  of  my  discourse  where  it  first 
distinctly  issues  from  the  limbo  of  forgetfulness. 

COCKERMOUTH 

I  was  lighting  my  pipe  as  I  stepped  out  of  the  inn  at 
Cockermouth,  and  did  not  raise  my  head  until  I  was 
fairly  in  the  street.  When  I  did  so,  it  flashed  upon  me 
that  I  was  in  England;  the  evening  sunlight  lit  up  Eng- 
lish houses,  English  faces,  an  English  conformation  of 
street,— as  it  were,  an  English  atmosphere  blew  against 
my  face.  There  is  nothing  perhaps  more  puzzling  (if 
one  thing  in  sociology  can  ever  really  be  more  unac- 
countable than  another)  than  the  great  gulf  that  is  set 
between  England  and  Scotland— a  gulf  so  easy  in  ap- 
pearance, in  reality  so  difficult  to  traverse.     Here  are 

72 


COCKERMOUTH   AND   KESWICK 

two  people  almost  identical  in  blood ;  pent  up  together 
on  one  small  island,  so  that  their  intercourse  (one  would 
have  thought)  must  be  as  close  as  that  of  prisoners  who 
shared  one  cell  of  the  Bastille ;  the  same  in  language  and 
religion ;  and  yet  a  few  years  of  quarrelsome  isolation 
—a  mere  forenoon's  tiff,  as  one  may  call  it,  in  compari- 
son with  the  great  historical  cycles— have  so  separated 
their  thoughts  and  ways  that  not  unions,  not  mutual 
dangers,  nor  steamers,  nor  railways,  nor  all  the  king's 
horses  and  all  the  king's  men,  seem  able  to  obliterate 
the  broad  distinction.  In  the  trituration  of  another 
century  or  so  the  corners  may  disappear;  but  in  the 
meantime,  in  the  year  of  grace  1871,  I  was  as  much  in  a 
new  country  as  if  I  had  been  walking  out  of  the  Hotel 
St.  Antoine  at  Antwerp. 

I  felt  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure  at  my  heart  as  I  realised 
the  change,  and  strolled  away  up  the  street  with  my 
hands  behind  my  back,  noting  in  a  dull,  sensual  way 
how  foreign,  and  yet  how  friendly,  were  the  slopes  of 
the  gables  and  the  colour  of  the  tiles,  and  even  the 
demeanour  and  voices  of  the  gossips  round  about  me. 

Wandering  in  this  aimless  humour,  I  turned  up  a 
lane  and  found  myself  following  the  course  of  the 
bright  little  river.  I  passed  first  one  and  then  another, 
then  a  third,  several  couples  out  love-making  in  the 
spring  evening;  and  a  consequent  feeling  of  loneliness 
was  beginning  to  grow  upon  me,  when  I  came  to  a  dam 
across  the  river,  and  a  mill— a  great,  gaunt  promontory 
of  building,— half  on  dry  ground  and  half  arched  over 
the  stream.  The  road  here  drew  in  its  shoulders,  and 
crept  through  between  the  landward  extremity  of  the 
mill  and  a  little  garden  enclosure,  with  a  small  house 

73 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

and  a  large  sign-board  within  its  privet  hedge.  I  was 
pleased  to  fancy  this  an  inn,  and  drew  little  etchings  in 
fancy  of  a  sanded  parlour,  and  three-cornered  spittoons, 
and  a  society  of  parochial  gossips  seated  within  over 
their  churchwardens ;  but  as  I  drew  near,  the  board  dis- 
played its  superscription,  and  I  could  read  the  name  of 
Smethurst,  and  the  designation  of  "  Canadian  Felt  Hat 
Manufacturers."  There  was  no  more  hope  of  evening 
fellowship,  and  I  could  only  stroll  on  by  the  river-side, 
under  the  trees.  The  water  was  dappled  with  slanting 
sunshine,  and  dusted  all  over  with  a  little  mist  of  flying- 
insects.  There  were  some  amorous  ducks,  also,  whose 
love-making  reminded  me  of  what  I  had  seen  a  little 
farther  down.  But  the  road  grew  sad,  and  I  grew 
weary ;  and  as  I  was  perpetually  haunted  with  the  ter- 
ror of  a  return  of  the  tic  that  had  been  playing  such 
ruin  in  my  head  a  week  ago,  I  turned  and  went  back  to 
the  inn,  and  supper,  and  my  bed. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  I  communicated  to 
the  smart  waitress  my  intention  of  continuing  down 
the  coast  and  through  Whitehaven  to  Furness,  and,  as 
I  might  have  expected,  I  was  instantly  confronted  by 
that  last  and  most  worrying  form  of  interference,  that 
chooses  to  introduce  tradition  and  authority  into  the 
choice  of  a  man's  own  pleasures.  I  can  excuse  a  person 
combating  my  religious  or  philosophical  heresies,  be- 
cause them  I  have  deliberately  accepted,  and  am  ready 
to  justify  by  present  argument.  But  I  do  not  seek  to 
justify  my  pleasures.  If  I  prefer  tame  scenery  to  grand, 
a  little  hot  sunshine  over  lowland  parks  and  woodlands 
to  the  war  of  the  elements  round  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc;  or  if  I  prefer  a  pipe  of  mild  tobacco,  and  the  com- 

74 


COCKERMOUTH   AND   KESWICK 

pany  of  one  or  two  chosen  companions,  to  a  ball  where 
I  feel  myself  very  hot,  awkward,  and  weary,  I  merely 
state  these  preferences  as  facts,  and  do  not  seek  to  es- 
tablish them  as  principles.  This  is  not  the  general  rule, 
however,  and  accordingly  the  waitress  was  shocked,  as 
one  might  be  at  a  heresy,  to  hear  the  route  that  I  had 
sketched  out  for  myself.  Everybody  who  came  to 
Cockermouth  for  pleasure,  it  appeared,  went  on  to  Kes- 
wick. It  was  in  vain  that  I  put  up  a  little  plea  for  the 
liberty  of  the  subject;  it  was  in  vain  that  I  said  I  should 
prefer  to  go  to  Whitehaven.  I  was  told  that  there  was 
"nothing  to  see  there"— that  weary,  hackneyed,  old 
falsehood ;  and  at  last,  as  the  handmaiden  began  to  look 
really  concerned,  I  gave  way,  as  men  always  do  in  such 
circumstances,  and  agreed  that  I  was  to  leave  for  Kes- 
wick by  a  train  in  the  early  evening. 

AN   EVANGELIST 

Cockermouth  itself,  on  the  same  authority,  was  a  place 
with  "  nothing  to  see  " ;  nevertheless  I  saw  a  good  deal, 
and  retain  a  pleasant,  vague  picture  of  the  town  and  all 
its  surroundings.  I  might  have  dodged  happily  enough 
all  day  about  the  main  street  and  up  to  the  castle  and 
in  and  out  of  byways,  but  the  curious  attraction  that 
leads  a  person  in  a  strange  place  to  follow,  day  after 
day,  the  same  round,  and  to  make  set  habits  for  him- 
self in  a  week  or  ten  days,  led  me  half  unconsciously 
up  the  same  road  that  I  had  gone  the  evening  before. 
When  I  came  up  to  the  hat  manufactory,  Smethurst 
himself  was  standing  in  the  garden  gate.  He  was 
brushing  one  Canadian  felt  hat,  and  several  others  had 

75 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

been  put  to  await  their  turn  one  above  the  other  on  his 
own  head,  so  that  he  looked  something  like  the  typical 
Jew  old-clothesman.  As  I  drew  near,  he  came  sidling 
out  of  the  doorway  to  accost  me,  with  so  curious  an 
expression  on  his  face  that  I  instinctively  prepared  my- 
self to  apologise  for  some  unwitting  trespass.  His  first 
question  rather  confirmed  me  in  this  belief,  for  it  was 
whether  or  not  he  had  seen  me  going  up  this  way  last 
night;  and  after  having  answered  in  the  affirmative,  I 
waited  in  some  alarm  for  the  rest  of  my  indictment. 
But  the  good  man's  heart  was  full  of  peace;  and  he 
stood  there  brushing  his  hats  and  prattling  on  about 
fishing,  and  walking,  and  the  pleasures  of  convalescence, 
in  a  bright  shallow  stream  that  kept  me  pleased  and  in- 
terested, I  could  scarcely  say  how.  As  he  went  on,  he 
warmed  to  his  subject,  and  laid  his  hats  aside  to  go 
along  the  water-side  and  show  me  where  the  large 
trout  commonly  lay,  underneath  an  overhanging  bank; 
and  he  was  much  disappointed,  for  my  sake,  that  there 
were  none  visible  just  then.  Then  he  wandered  off  on  to 
another  tack,  and  stood  a  great  while  out  in  the  middle 
of  a  meadow  in  the  hot  sunshine,  trying  to  make  out 
that  he  had  known  me  before,  or,  if  not  me,  some 
friend  of  mine,  merely,  I  believe,  out  of  a  desire  that 
we  should  feel  more  friendly  and  at  our  ease  with  one 
another.  At  last  he  made  a  little  speech  to  me,  of 
which  I  wish  I  could  recollect  the  very  words,  for  they 
were  so  simple  and  unaffected  that  they  put  all  the  best 
writing  and  speaking  to  the  blush ;  as  it  is,  I  can  recall 
only  the  sense,  and  that  perhaps  imperfectly.  He  began 
by  saying  that  he  had  little  things  in  his  past  life  that 
it  gave  him  especial  pleasure  to  recall;  and  that  the  fac- 

^6 


COCKERMOUTH   AND   KESWICK 

ulty  of  receiving  such  sharp  impressions  had  now  died 
out  in  himself,  but  must  at  my  age  be  still  quite  lively 
and  active.  Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  a  little  raft 
afloat  on  the  river  above  the  dam  which  he  was  going 
to  lend  me,  in  order  that  I  might  be  able  to  look  back, 
in  after  years,  upon  having  done  so,  and  get  great 
pleasure  from  the  recollection.  Now,  1  have  a  friend  of 
my  own  who  will  forego  present  enjoyments  and  suffer 
much  present  inconvenience  for  the  sake  of  manufac- 
turing "a  reminiscence"  for  himself;  but  there  was 
something  singularly  refined  in  this  pleasure  that  the 
hatmaker  found  in  making  reminiscences  for  others; 
surely  no  more  simple  or  unselfish  luxury  can  be  ima- 
gined. After  he  had  unmoored  his  little  embarkation, 
and  seen  me  safely  shoved  off  into  mid-stream,  he  ran 
away  back  to  his  hats  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
only  just  recollected  that  he  had  anything  to  do. 

I  did  not  stay  very  long  on  the  raft.  It  ought  to  have 
been  very  nice  punting  about  there  in  the  cool  shade  of 
the  trees,  or  sitting  moored  to  an  overhanging  root;  but 
perhaps  the  very  notion  that  I  was  bound  in  gratitude 
specially  to  enjoy  my  little  cruise,  and  cherish  its  recol- 
lection, turned  the  whole  thing  from  a  pleasure  into  a 
duty.  Be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  no  doubt  that  I  soon 
wearied  and  came  ashore  again,  and  that  it  gives  me 
more  pleasure  to  recall  the  man  himself  and  his  simple, 
happy  conversation,  so  full  of  gusto  and  sympathy, 
than  anything  possibly  connected  with  his  crank,  inse- 
cure embarkation.  In  order  to  avoid  seeing  him,  for  I 
was  not  a  little  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  failed  to 
enjoy  his  treat  sufficiently,  I  determined  to  continue  up 
the  river,  and,  at  all  prices,  to  find  some  other  way  back 

77 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

into  the  town  in  time  for  dinner.  As  I  went,  I  was 
thinking  of  Smethurst  with  admiration;  a  look  into  that 
man's  mind  was  like  a  retrospect  over  the  smiling 
champaign  of  his  past  life,  and  very  different  from  the 
Sinai-gorges  up  which  one  looks  for  a  terrified  moment 
into  the  dark  souls  of  many  good,  many  wise,  and 
many  prudent  men.  I  cannot  be  very  grateful  to  such 
men  for  their  excellence,  and  wisdom,  and  prudence. 
I  find  myself  facing  as  stoutly  as  I  can  a  hard,  comba- 
tive existence,  full  of  doubt,  difficulties,  defeats,  dis- 
appointments, and  dangers,  quite  a  hard  enough  life 
without  their  dark  countenances  at  my  elbow,  so  that 
what  I  want  is  a  happy-minded  Smethurst  placed  here 
and  there  at  ugly  corners  of  my  life's  wayside,  preach- 
ing his  gospel  of  quiet  and  contentment. 

ANOTHER 

I  was  shortly  to  meet  with  an  evangelist  of  another 
stamp.  After  I  had  forced  my  way  through  a  gentle- 
man's grounds,  I  came  out  on  the  highroad,  and  sat 
down  to  rest  myself  on  a  heap  of  stones  at  the  top  of  a 
long  hill,  with  Cockermouth  lying  snugly  at  the  bottom. 
An  Irish  beggar-woman,  with  a  beautiful  little  girl  by 
her  side,  came  up  to  ask  for  alms,  and  gradually  fell  to 
telling  me  the  little  tragedy  of  her  life.  Her  own  sister, 
she  told  me,  had  seduced  her  husband  from  her  after 
many  years  of  married  life,  and  the  pair  had  fled,  leav- 
ing her  destitute,  with  the  little  girl  upon  her  hands. 
She  seemed  quite  hopeful  and  cheery,  and,  though  she 
was  unaffectedly  sorry  for  the  loss  of  her  husband's 
earnings,  she  made  no  pretence  of  despair  at  the  loss  of 

78 


COCKERMOUTH   AND   KESWICK 

his  affection ;  some  day  she  would  meet  the  fugitives, 
and  the  law  would  see  her  duly  righted,  and  in  the 
meantime  the  smallest  contribution  was  gratefully  re- 
ceived. While  she  was  telling  all  this  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  way,  1  had  been  noticing  the  approach  of 
a  tall  man,  with  a  high  white  hat  and  darkish  clothes. 
He  came  up  the  hill  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  joined  our  little 
group  with  a  sort  of  half-salutation.  Turning  at  once 
to  the  woman,  he  asked  her  in  a  business-like  way 
whether  she  had  anything  to  do,  whether  she  were  a 
Catholic  or  a  Protestant,  whether  she  could  read,  and  so 
forth;  and  then,  after  a  few  kind  words  and  some 
sweeties  to  the  child,  he  despatched  the  mother  with 
some  tracts  about  Biddy  and  the  Priest,  and  the  Orange- 
man's Bible.  I  was  a  little  amused  at  his  abrupt  man- 
ner, for  he  was  still  a  young  man,  and  had  somewhat 
the  air  of  a  navy  officer;  but  he  tackled  me  with  great 
solemnity.  I  could  make  fun  of  what  he  said,  for  I  do 
not  think  it  was  very  wise;  but  the  subject  does  not 
appear  to  me  just  now  in  a  jesting  light,  so  I  shall  only 
say  that  he  related  to  me  his  own  conversion,  which 
had  been  effected  (as  is  very  often  the  case)  through 
the  agency  of  a  gig  accident,  and  that,  after  having 
examined  me  and  diagnosed  my  case,  he  selected  some 
suitable  tracts  from  his  repertory,  gave  them  to  me, 
and,  bidding  me  God-speed,  went  on  his  way. 

LAST  OF  SMETHURST 

That  evening  I  got  into  a  third-class  carriage  on  my 
way  for  Keswick,  and  was  followed  almost  immedi- 
ately by  a  burly  man  in  brown  clothes.     This  fellow- 

79 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

passenger  was  seemingly  ill  at  ease,  and  kept  continu- 
ally putting  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  asking  the 
bystanders  if  they  saw  him  coming.  At  last,  when  the 
train  was  already  in  motion,  there  was  a  commotion  on 
the  platform,  and  a  way  was  left  clear  to  our  carriage 
door.  He  had  arrived.  In  the  hurry  I  could  just  see 
Smethurst,  red  and  panting,  thrust  a  couple  of  clay  pipes 
into  my  companion's  outstretched  hand,  and  hear  him 
crying  his  farewells  after  us  as  we  slipped  out  of  the 
station  at  an  ever-accelerating  pace.  I  said  something 
about  its  being  a  close  run,  and  the  broad  man,  already 
engaged  in  filling  one  of  the  pipes,  assented,  and  went 
on  to  tell  me  of  his  own  stupidity  in  forgetting  a  neces- 
sary, and  of  how  his  friend  had  good-naturedly  gone 
down-town  at  the  last  moment  to  supply  the  omission. 
I  mentioned  that  I  had  seen  Mr.  Smethurst  already,  and 
that  he  had  been  very  polite  to  me;  and  we  fell  into  a 
discussion  of  the  hatter's  merits  that  lasted  some  time 
and  left  us  quite  good  friends  at  its  conclusion.  The 
topic  was  productive  of  goodwill.  We  exchanged 
tobacco  and  talked  about  the  season,  and  agreed  at  last 
that  we  should  go  to  the  same  hotel  at  Keswick  and 
sup  in  company.  As  he  had  some  business  in  the  town 
which  would  occupy  him  some  hour  or  so,  on  our  arri- 
val I  was  to  improve  the  time  and  go  down  to  the  lake, 
that  I  might  see  a  glimpse  of  the  promised  wonders. 

The  night  had  fallen  already  when  I  reached  the 
water-side,  at  a  place  where  many  pleasure-boats  are 
moored  and  ready  for  hire ;  and  as  1  went  along  a  stony 
path,  between  wood  and  water,  a  strong  wind  blew  in 
gusts  from  the  far  end  of  the  lake.  The  sky  was  cov- 
ered with  flying  scud;  and,  as  this  was  ragged,  there 
was  quite  a  wild  chase  of  shadow  and  moon-glimpse 

80 


CROCKERMOUTH  AND   KESWICK 

over  the  surface  of  the  shuddering  water.  I  had  to 
hold  my  hat  on,  and  was  growing  rather  tired,  and  in- 
clined to  go  back  in  disgust,  when  a  little  incident  oc- 
curred to  break  the  tedium.  A  sudden  and  violent 
squall  of  wind  sundered  the  low  underwood,  and  at  the 
same  time  there  came  one  of  those  brief  discharges  of 
moonlight,  which  leaped  into  the  opening  thus  made, 
and  showed  me  three  girls  in  the  prettiest  flutter  and 
disorder.  It  was  as  though  they  had  sprung  out  of 
the  ground.  I  accosted  them  very  politely  in  my  ca- 
pacity of  stranger,  and  requested  to  be  told  the  names 
of  all  manner  of  hills  and  woods  and  places  that  I  did 
not  wish  to  know,  and  we  stood  together  for  a  while 
and  had  an  amusing  little  talk.  The  wind,  too,  made 
himself  of  the  party,  brought  the  colour  into  their  faces, 
and  gave  them  enough  to  do  to  repress  their  drapery ; 
and  one  of  them,  amid  much  giggling,  had  to  pirouette 
round  and  round  upon  her  toes  (as  girls  do)  when  some 
specially  strong  gust  had  got  the  advantage  over  her. 
They  were  just  high  enough  up  in  the  social  order  not 
to  be  afraid  to  speak  to  a  gentleman;  and  just  low 
enough  to  feel  a  little  tremor,  a  nervous  consciousness 
of  wrong-doing— of  stolen  waters,  that  gave  a  consid- 
erable zest  to  our  most  innocent  interview.  They  were 
as  much  discomposed  and  fluttered,  indeed,  as  if  I  had 
been  a  wicked  baron  proposing  to  elope  with  the  whole 
trio;  but  they  showed  no  inclination  to  go  away,  and  I 
had  managed  to  get  them  off  hills  and  waterfalls  and  on 
to  more  promising  subjects,  when  a  young  man  was  de- 
scried coming  along  the  path  from  the  direction  of  Kes- 
wick. Now  whether  he  was  the  young  man  of  one  of 
my  friends,  or  the  brother  of  one  of  them,  or  indeed  the 
brother  of  all,  I  do  not  know;  but  they  incontinently 

8i 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

said  that  they  must  be  going,  and  went  away  up  the 
path  with  friendly  salutations.  1  need  not  say  that  I 
found  the  lake  and  the  moonlight  rather  dull  after  their 
departure,  and  speedily  found  my  way  back  to  potted 
herrings  and  whisky-and-water  in  the  commercial  room 
with  my  late  fellow-traveller.  In  the  smoking-room  there 
was  a  tall  dark  man  with  a  moustache,  in  an  ulster  coat, 
who  had  got  the  best  place  and  was  monopolising  most 
of  the  talk;  and,  as  I  came  in,  a  whisper  came  round  to 
me  from  both  sides,  that  this  was  the  manager  of  a 
London  theatre.  The  presence  of  such  a  man  was  a 
great  event  for  Keswick,  and  1  must  own  that  the  man- 
ager showed  himself  equal  to  his  position.  He  had  a 
large  fat  pocket-book,  from  which  he  produced  poem 
after  poem,  written  on  the  backs  of  letters  or  hotel-bills ; 
and  nothing  could  be  more  humorous  than  his  recitation 
of  these  elegant  extracts,  except  perhaps  the  anecdotes 
with  which  he  varied  the  entertainment.  Seeing,  I 
suppose,  something  less  countrified  in  my  appearance 
than  in  most  of  the  company,  he  singled  me  out  to  cor- 
roborate some  statements  as  to  the  depravity  and  vice 
of  the  aristocracy,  and  when  he  went  on  to  describe 
some  gilded  saloon  experiences,  1  am  proud  to  say  that 
he  honoured  my  sagacity  with  one  little  covert  wink 
before  a  second  time  appealing  to  me  for  confirmation. 
The  wink  was  not  thrown  away;  I  went  in  up  to  the 
elbows  with  the  manager,  until  I  think  that  some  of  the 
glory  of  that  great  man  settled  by  reflection  upon  me, 
and  that  I  was  as  noticeably  the  second  person  in  the 
smoking-room  as  he  was  the  first.  For  a  young  man, 
this  was  a  position  of  some  distinction,  I  think  you  will 
admit.  .  .    . 

82 


Ill 

ROADS 
(1873) 

No  amateur  will  deny  that  he  can  find  more  pleasure 
in  a  single  drawing,  over  which  he  can  sit  a  whole  quiet 
forenoon,  and  so  gradually  study  himself  into  humour 
with  the  artist,  than  he  can  ever  extract  from  the  dazzle 
and  accumulation  of  incongruous  impressions  that  sends 
him,  weary  and  stupefied,  out  of  some  famous  picture- 
gallery.  But  what  is  thus  admitted  with  regard  to  art 
is  not  extended  to  the  (so-called)  natural  beauties:  no 
amount  of  excess  in  sublime  mountain  outline  or  the 
graces  of  cultivated  lowland  can  do  anything,  it  is 
supposed,  to  weaken  or  degrade  the  palate.  We  are 
not  at  all  sure,  however,  that  moderation,  and  a  regi- 
men tolerably  austere,  even  in  scenery,  are  not  healthful 
and  strengthening  to  the  taste;  and  that  the  best  school 
for  a  lover  of  nature  is  not  to  be  found  in  one  of  those 
countries  where  there  is  no  stage  effect— nothing  salient 
or  sudden,  —but  a  quiet  spirit  of  orderly  and  harmonious 
beauty  pervades  all  the  details,  so  that  we  can  patiently 
attend  to  each  of  the  little  touches  that  strike  in  us,  all 
of  them  together,  the  subdued  note  of  the  landscape. 
It  is  in  scenery  such  as  this  that  we  find  ourselves  in 

83 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

the  right  temper  to  seek  out  small  sequestered  loveli- 
ness. The  constant  recurrence  of  similar  combinations 
of  colour  and  outline  gradually  forces  upon  us  a  sense 
of  how  the  harmony  has  been  built  up,  and  we  become 
familiar  with  something  of  nature's  mannerism.  This 
is  the  true  pleasure  of  your  "  rural  voluptuary,"— not  to 
remain  awe-stricken  before  a  Mount  Chimborazo;  not 
to  sit  deafened  over  the  big  drum  in  the  orchestra,  but 
day  by  day  to  teach  himself  some  new  beauty— to  ex- 
perience some  new  vague  and  tranquil  sensation  that 
has  before  evaded  him.  It  is  not  the  people  who  "  have 
pined  and  hungered  after  nature  many  a  year,  in  the 
great  city  pent,"  as  Coleridge  said  in  the  poem  that  made 
Charles  Lamb  so  much  ashamed  of  himself;  it  is  not 
those  who  make  the  greatest  progress  in  this  intimacy 
with  her,  or  who  are  most  quick  to  see  and  have  the 
greatest  gusto  to  enjoy.  In  this,  as  in  everything  else, 
it  is  minute  knowledge  and  long-continued  loving  in- 
dustry that  make  the  true  dilettante.  A  man  must  have 
thought  much  over  scenery  before  he  begins  fully  to 
enjoy  it.  It  is  no  youngling  enthusiasm  on  hill-tops 
that  can  possess  itself  of  the  last  essence  of  beauty. 
Probably  most  people's  heads  are  growing  bare  before 
they  can  see  all  in  a  landscape  that  they  have  the  capa- 
bility of  seeing;  and,  even  then,  it  will  be  only  for  one 
little  moment  of  consummation  before  the  faculties  are 
again  on  the  decline,  and  they  that  look  out  of  the  win- 
dows begin  to  be  darkened  and  restrained  in  sight. 
Thus  the  study  of  nature  should  be  carried  forward 
thoroughly  and  with  system.  Every  gratification  should 
be  rolled  long  under  the  tongue,  and  we  should  be 
always  eager  to  analyse  and  compare,  in  order  that  we 


ROADS 

may  be  able  to  give  some  plausible  reason  for  our  ad- 
mirations. True,  it  is  difficult  to  put  even  approxi- 
mately into  words  the  kind  of  feelings  thus  called  into 
play.  There  is  a  dangerous  vice  inherent  in  any  such 
intellectual  refining  upon  vague  sensation.  The  analy- 
sis of  such  satisfactions  lends  itself  very  readily  to  lit- 
erary affectations;  and  we  can  all  think  of  instances 
where  it  has  shown  itself  apt  to  exercise  a  morbid  in- 
fluence, even  upon  an  author's  choice  of  language  and 
the  turn  of  his  sentences.  And  yet  there  is  much  that 
makes  the  attempt  attractive ;  for  any  expression,  how- 
ever imperfect,  once  given  to  a  cherished  feeling, 
seems  a  sort  of  legitimation  of  the  pleasure  we  take  in 
it.  A  common  sentiment  is  one  of  those  great  goods 
that  make  life  palatable  and  ever  new.  The  knowledge 
that  another  has  felt  as  we  have  felt,  and  seen  things, 
even  if  they  are  little  things,  not  much  otherwise  than 
we  have  seen  them,  will  continue  to  the  end  to  be  one 
of  life's  choicest  pleasures. 

Let  the  reader,  then,  betake  himself  in  the  spirit  we 
have  recommended  to  some  of  the  quieter  kinds  of  Eng- 
lish landscape.  In  those  homely  and  placid  agricultural 
districts,  familiarity  will  bring  into  relief  many  things 
worthy  of  notice,  and  urge  them  pleasantly  home  to 
him  by  a  sort  of  loving  repetition;  such  as  the  won- 
derful life-giving  speed  of  windmill  sails  above  the 
stationary  country ;  the  occurrence  and  recurrence  of  the 
same  church  tower  at  the  end  of  one  long  vista  after 
another:  and,  conspicuous  among  these  sources  of  quiet 
pleasure,  the  character  and  variety  of  the  road  itself, 
along  which  he  takes  his  way.  Not  only  near  at  hand, 
in  the  lithe  contortions  with  which  it  adapts  itself  to  the 

85 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

interchanges  of  level  and  slope,  but  far  away  also,  when 
he  sees  a  few  hundred  feet  of  it  upheaved  against  a  hill 
and  shining  in  the  afternoon  sun,  he  will  find  it  an  object 
so  changeful  and  enlivening  that  he  can  always  plea- 
surably  busy  his  mind  about  it.  He  may  leave  the  river- 
side, or  fall  out  of  the  way  of  villages,  but  the  road  he 
has  always  with  him;  and,  in  the  true  humour  of  ob- 
servation, will  find  in  that  sufficient  company.  From 
its  subtle  windings  and  changes  of  level  there  arises 
a  keen  and  continuous  interest,  that  keeps  the  attention 
ever  alert  and  cheerful.  Every  sensitive  adjustment  to 
the  contour  of  the  ground,  every  little  dip  and  swerve, 
seems  instinct  with  life  and  an  exquisite  sense  of  bal- 
ance and  beauty.  The  road  rolls  upon  the  easy  slopes 
of  the  country,  like  a  long  ship  in  the  hollows  of  the 
sea.  The  very  margins  of  waste  ground,  as  they  trench 
a  little  farther  on  the  beaten  way,  or  recede  again  to  the 
shelter  of  the  hedge,  have  something  of  the  same  free 
delicacy  of  line— of  the  same  swing  and  wilfulness. 
You  might  think  for  a  whole  summer's  day  (and  not 
have  thought  it  any  nearer  an  end  by  evening)  what  con- 
course and  succession  of  circumstances  has  produced  the 
least  of  these  deflections;  and  it  is,  perhaps,  just  in 
this  that  we  should  look  for  the  secret  of  their  interest. 
A  foot-path  across  a  meadow— in  all  its  human  way- 
wardness and  unaccountability,  in  all  the  grata  proter- 
vitas  of  its  varying  direction— will  always  be  more  to 
us  than  a  railroad  well  engineered  through  a  difficult 
country.^    No  reasoned  sequence  is  thrust  upon  our  at- 

1  Compare  Blake,  in  the  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell :  "  Improve- 
ment makes  straight  roads ;  but  the  crooked  roads,  without  improvement, 
are  roads  of  Genius." 

86 


ROADS 

tention:  we  seem  to  have  slipped  for  one  lawless  little 
moment  out  of  the  iron  rule  of  cause  and  effect;  and  so 
we  revert  at  once  to  some  of  the  pleasant  old  heresies 
of  personification,  always  poetically  orthodox,  and  at- 
tribute a  sort  of  free-will,  an  active  and  spontaneous 
life,  to  the  white  riband  of  road  that  lengthens  out,  and 
bends,  and  cunningly  adapts  itself  to  the  inequalities  of 
the  land  before  our  eyes.  We  remember,  as  we  write, 
some  miles  of  fine  wide  highway  laid  out  with  con- 
scious aesthetic  artifice  through  a  broken  and  richly 
cultivated  tract  of  country.  It  is  said  that  the  engineer 
had  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty  in  his  mind  as  he  laid  them 
down.  And  the  result  is  striking.  One  splendid  sat- 
isfying sweep  passes  with  easy  transition  into  another, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  trouble  or  dislocate  the  strong 
continuousness  of  the  main  line  of  the  road.  And  yet 
there  is  something  wanting.  There  is  here  no  saving 
imperfection,  none  of  those  secondary  curves  and  little 
trepidations  of  direction  that  carry,  in  natural  roads,  our 
curiosity  actively  along  with  them.  One  feels  at  once 
that  this  road  has  not  grown  like  a  natural  road,  but  has 
been  laboriously  made  to  pattern;  and  that,  while  a 
model  may  be  academically  correct  in  outline,  it  will 
always  be  inanimate  and  cold.  The  traveller  is  also 
aware  of  a  sympathy  of  mood  between  himself  and  the 
road  he  travels.  We  have  all  seen  ways  that  have  wan- 
dered into  heavy  sand  near  the  sea-coast,  and  trail 
wearily  over  the  dunes  like  a  trodden  serpent:  here  we 
too  must  plod  forward  at  a  dull,  laborious  pace;  and  so 
a  sympathy  is  preserved  between  our  frame  of  mind 
and  the  expression  of  the  relaxed,  heavy  curves  of  the 
roadway.     Such  a  phenomenon,   indeed,   our  reason 

87 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

might  perhaps  resolve  with  a  little  trouble.  We  might 
reflect  that  the  present  road  had  been  developed  out  of 
a  track  spontaneously  followed  by  generations  of  primi- 
tive wayfarers ;  and  might  see  in  its  expression  a  testi- 
mony that  those  generations  had  been  affected  at  the 
same  ground,  one  after  another,  in  the  same  manner  as 
we  are  affected  to-day.  Or  we  might  carry  the  reflec- 
tion further,  and  remind  ourselves  that  where  the  air  is 
invigorating  and  the  ground  firm  under  the  traveller's 
foot,  his  eye  is  quick  to  take  advantage  of  small  undu- 
lations, and  he  will  turn  carelessly  aside  from  the  direct 
way  wherever  there  is  anything  beautiful  to  examine  or 
some  promise  of  a  wider  view;  so  that  even  a  bush  of 
wild  roses  may  permanently  bias  and  deform  the  straight 
path  over  the  meadow;  whereas,  where  the  soil  is 
heavy,  one  is  preoccupied  with  the  labour  of  mere  pro- 
gression, and  goes  with  a  bowed  head  heavily  and  un- 
observantly  forward.  Reason,  however,  will  not  carry 
us  the  whole  way ;  for  the  sentiment  often  recurs  in 
situations  where  it  is  very  hard  to  imagine  any  possible 
explanation;  and  indeed,  if  we  drive  briskly  along  a 
good,  well-made  road  in  an  open  vehicle,  we  shall  ex- 
perience this  sympathy  almost  at  its  fullest.  We  feel 
the  sharp  settle  of  the  springs  at  some  curiously  twisted 
corner;  after  a  steep  ascent,  the  fresh  air  dances  in  our 
faces  as  we  rattle  precipitately  down  the  other  side, 
and  we  find  it  difficult  to  avoid  attributing  something 
headlong,  a  sort  of  abandon,  to  the  road  itself. 

The  mere  winding  of  the  path  is  enough  to  enliven  a 
long  day's  walk  in  even  a  commonplace  or  dreary  coun- 
try-side. Something  that  we  have  seen  from  miles  back, 
upon  an  eminence,  is  so  long  hid  from  us,  as  we  wan- 

88 


ROADS 

der  through  folded  valleys  or  among  woods,  that  our 
expectation  of  seeing  it  again  is  sharpened  into  a  violent 
appetite,  and  as  we  draw  nearer  we  impatiently  quicken 
our  steps  and  turn  every  corner  with  a  beating  heart. 
It  is  through  these  prolongations  of  expectancy,  this 
succession  of  one  hope  to  another,  that  we  live  out  long 
seasons  of  pleasure  in  a  few  hours'  walk.  It  is  in  fol- 
lowing these  capricious  sinuosities  that  we  learn,  only  bit 
by  bit  and  through  one  coquettish  reticence  after  another, 
much  as  we  learn  the  heart  of  a  friend,  the  whole  loveli- 
ness of  the  country.  This  disposition  always  preserves 
something  new  to  be  seen,  and  takes  us,  like  a  careful 
cicerone,  to  many  different  points  of  distant  view  before 
it  allows  us  finally  to  approach  the  hoped-for  destination. 
In  its  connection  with  the  traffic,  and  whole  friendly 
intercourse  with  the  country,  there  is  something  very 
pleasant  in  that  succession  of  saunterers  and  brisk  and 
business-like  passers-by,  that  peoples  our  ways  and 
helps  to  build  up  what  Walt  Whitman  calls  *'  the  cheer- 
ful voice  of  the  public  road,  the  gay,  fresh  sentiment  of 
the  road."  But  out  of  the  great  network  of  ways  that 
binds  all  life  together  from  the  hill-farm  to  the  city, 
there  is  something  individual  to  most,  and,  on  the 
whole,  nearly  as  much  choice  on  the  score  of  company 
as  on  the  score  of  beauty  or  easy  travel.  On  some  we 
are  never  long  without  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  folk 
pass  us  by  so  thickly  that  we  lose  the  sense  of  their 
number.  But  on  others,  about  little-frequented  districts, 
a  meeting  is  an  affair  of  moment;  we  have  the  sight  far 
off  of  some  one  coming  towards  us,  the  growing  defi- 
niteness  of  the  person,  and  then  the  brief  passage  and 
salutation,  and  the  road  left  empty  in  front  of  us  for 

89 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

perhaps  a  great  while  to  come.  Such  encounters  have 
a  wistful  interest  that  can  hardly  be  understood  by  the 
dweller  in  places  more  populous.  We  remember  stand- 
ing beside  a  countryman  once,  in  the  mouth  of  a  quiet 
by-street  in  a  city  that  was  more  than  ordinarily  crowded 
and  bustling;  he  seemed  stunned  and  bewildered  by 
the  continual  passage  of  different  faces;  and  after  a 
long  pause,  during  which  he  appeared  to  search  for 
some  suitable  expression,  he  said  timidly  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  of  meeting  thereabouts.  The 
phrase  is  significant.  It  is  the  expression  of  town-life 
in  the  language  of  the  long,  solitary  country  highways. 
A  meeting  of  one  with  one  was  what  this  man  had  been 
used  to  in  the  pastoral  uplands  from  which  he  came; 
and  the  concourse  of  the  streets  was  in  his  eyes  only 
an  extraordinary  multiplication  of  such  "meetings." 

And  now  we  come  to  that  last  and  most  subtle  qual- 
ity of  all,  to  that  sense  of  prospect,  of  outlook,  that  is 
brought  so  powerfully  to  our  minds  by  a  road.  In  real 
nature  as  well  as  in  old  landscapes,  beneath  that  im- 
partial daylight  in  which  a  whole  variegated  plain  is 
plunged  and  saturated,  the  line  of  the  road  leads  the 
eye  forth  with  the  vague  sense  of  desire  up  to  the  green 
limit  of  the  horizon.  Travel  is  brought  home  to  us,  and 
we  visit  in  spirit  every  grove  and  hamlet  that  tempts  us 
in  the  distance.  Sehnsucht— the  passion  for  what  is 
ever  beyond— is  livingly  expressed  in  that  white  riband 
of  possible  travel  that  severs  the  uneven  country ;  not  a 
ploughman  following  his  plough  up  the  shining  furrow, 
not  the  blue  smoke  of  any  cottage  in  a  hollow,  but  is 
brought  to  us  with  a  sense  of  nearness  and  attainability 
by  this  wavering  line  of  junction.     There  is  a  passion- 

90 


ROADS 

ate  paragraph  in  Wertber  that  strikes  the  very  key. 
"  When  I  came  hither,"  he  writes,  "  how  the  beautiful 
valley  invited  me  on  every  side,  as  I  gazed  down  into  it 
from  the  hill-top!  There  the  wood— ah,  that  I  might 
mingle  in  its  shadows!  there  the  mountain  summits— 
ah,  that  I  might  look  down  from  them  over  the  broad 
country!  the  interlinked  hills!  the  secret  valleys!  O, 
to  lose  myself  among  their  mysteries !  I  hurried  into 
the  midst,  and  came  back  without  finding  aught  I  hoped 
for.  Alas!  the  distance  is  like  the  future.  A  vast 
whole  lies  in  the  twilight  before  our  spirit;  sight  and 
feeling  alike  plunge  and  lose  themselves  in  the  prospect, 
and  we  yearn  to  surrender  our  whole  being,  and  let  it 
be  filled  full  with  all  the  rapture  of  one  single  glorious 
sensation;  and  alas!  when  we  hasten  to  the  fruition, 
when  there  is  changed  to  here,  all  is  afterwards  as  it 
was  before,  and  we  stand  in  our  indigent  and  cramped 
estate,  and  our  soul  thirsts  after  a  still  ebbing  elixir." 
It  is  to  this  wandering  and  uneasy  spirit  of  anticipation 
that  roads  minister.  Every  little  vista,  every  little 
glimpse  that  we  have  of  what  lies  before  us,  gives  the 
impatient  imagination  rein,  so  that  it  can  outstrip  the 
body  and  already  plunge  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods, 
and  overlook  from  the  hill-top  the  plain  beyond  it,  and 
wander  in  the  windings  of  the  valleys  that  are  still  far 
in  front.  The  road  is  already  there— we  shall  not  be 
long  behind.  It  is  as  if  we  were  marching  with  the 
rear  of  a  great  army,  and,  from  far  before,  heard  the 
acclamation  of  the  people  as  the  vanguard  entered 
some  friendly  and  jubilant  city.  Would  not  every  man, 
through  all  the  long  miles  of  march,  feel  as  if  he  also 
were  within  the  gates  ? 

91 


IV 

NOTES  ON  THE  MOVEMENTS  OF  YOUNG  CHILDREN 
(1874) 

I  WISH  to  direct  the  reader's  attention  to  a  certain  qual- 
ity in  the  movements  of  children  when  young,  which  is 
somehow  lovable  in  them,  although  it  would  be  even 
unpleasant  in  any  grown  person.  Their  movements 
are  not  graceful,  but  they  fall  short  of  grace  by  some- 
thing so  sweetly  humorous  that  we  only  admire  them 
the  more.  The  imperfection  is  so  pretty  and  pathetic, 
and  it  gives  so  great  a  promise  of  something  different 
in  the  future,  that  it  attracts  us  more  than  many  forms 
of  beauty.  They  have  something  of  the  merit  of  a 
rough  sketch  by  a  master,  in  which  we  pardon  what  is 
wanting  or  excessive  for  the  sake  of  the  very  bluntness 
and  directness  of  the  thing.  It  gives  us  pleasure  to  see 
the  beginning  of  gracious  impulses  and  the  springs  of 
harmonious  movement  laid  bare  to  us  with  innocent 
simplicity. 

One  night  some  ladies  formed  a  sort  of  impromptu 
dancing-school  in  the  drawing-room  of  an  hotel  in 
France.  One  of  the  ladies  led  the  ring,  and  I  can  recall 
her  as  a  model  of  accomplished,  cultured  movement. 
Two  little  girls,  about  eight  years  old,  were  the  pupils ; 

92 


NOTES  ON   THE  MOVEMENTS   OF  YOUNG   CHILDREN 

that  is  an  age  of  great  interest  in  girls,  when  natural  grace 
comes  to  its  consummation  of  justice  and  purity,  with 
little  admixture  of  that  other  grace  of  forethought  and 
discipline  that  will  shortly  supersede  it  altogether.  In 
these  two,  particularly,  the  rhythm  was  sometimes 
broken  by  an  excess  of  energy,  as  though  the  pleasure 
of  the  music  in  their  light  bodies  could  endure  no  longer 
the  restraint  of  regulated  dance.  So  that,  between 
these  and  the  lady,  there  was  not  only  some  beginning 
of  the  very  contrast  I  wish  to  insist  upon,  but  matter 
enough  to  set  one  thinking  a  long  while  on  the  beauty 
of  motion.  I  do  not  know  that,  here  in  England,  we 
have  any  good  opportunity  of  seeing  what  that  is ;  the 
generation  of  British  dancing  men  and  women  are  cer- 
tainly more  remarkable  for  other  qualities  than  for  grace : 
they  are,  many  of  them,  very  conscientious  artists,  and 
give  quite  a  serious  regard  to  the  technical  parts  of  their 
performance;  but  the  spectacle,  somehow,  is  not  often 
beautiful,  and  strikes  no  note  of  pleasure.  If  I  had  seen 
no  more,  therefore,  this  evening  might  have  remained 
in  my  memory  as  a  rare  experience.  But  the  best  part 
of  it  was  yet  to  come.  For  after  the  others  had  desisted, 
the  musician  still  continued  to  play,  and  a  little  button 
between  two  and  three  years  old  came  out  into  the 
cleared  space  and  began  to  figure  before  us  as  the  music 
prompted.  I  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  her,  not  on 
this  night  only,  but  on  many  subsequent  nights ;  and 
the  wonder  and  comical  admiration  she  inspired  was 
only  deepened  as  time  went  on.  She  had  an  admirable 
musical  ear;  and  each  new  melody,  as  it  struck  in  her 
a  new  humour,  suggested  wonderful  combinations  and 
variations  of  movement.     Now  it  would  be  a  dance 

93 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

with  which  she  would  suit  the  music,  now  rather  an 
appropriate  pantomime,  and  now  a  mere  string  of  dis- 
connected attitudes.  But  whatever  she  did,  she  did  it 
with  the  same  verve  and  gusto.  The  spirit  of  the  air 
seemed  to  have  entered  into  her,  and  to  possess  her  like 
a  passion ;  and  you  could  see  her  struggling  to  find  ex- 
pression for  the  beauty  that  was  in  her  against  the  in- 
efFicacy  of  the  dull,  half-informed  body.  Though  her 
footing  was  uneven,  and  her  gestures  often  ludicrously 
helpless,  still  the  spectacle  was  not  merely  amusing; 
and  though  subtle  inspirations  of  movement  miscarried 
in  tottering  travesty,  you  could  still  see  that  they  had 
been  inspirations;  you  could  still  see  that  she  had  set 
her  heart  on  realising  something  just  and  beautiful,  and 
that,  by  the  discipline  of  these  abortive  efforts,  she  was 
making  for  herself  in  the  future  a  quick,  supple,  and 
obedient  body.  It  was  grace  in  the  making.  She  was 
not  to  be  daunted  by  any  merriment  of  people  looking 
on  critically ;  the  music  said  something  to  her,  and  her 
whole  spirit  was  intent  on  what  the  music  said:  she 
must  carry  out  its  suggestions,  she  must  do  her  best  to 
translate  its  language  into  that  other  dialect  of  the 
modulated  body  into  which  it  can  be  translated  most 
easily  and  fully. 

Just  the  other  day  I  was  witness  to  a  second  scene, 
in  which  the  motive  was  something  similar;  only  this 
time  with  quite  common  children,  and  in  the  familiar 
neighbourhood  of  Hampstead.  A  little  congregation 
had  formed  itself  in  the  lane  underneath  my  window, 
and  was  busy  over  a  skipping-rope.  There  were  two 
sisters,  from  seven  to  nine  perhaps,  with  dark  faces 
and  dark  hair,  and  slim,  lithe  little  figures  clad  in  lilac 

94 


NOTES   ON   THE  MOVEMENTS  OF  YOUNG   CHILDREN 

frocks.  The  elder  of  these  two  was  mistress  of  the  art 
of  skipping.  She  was  just  and  adroit  in  every  move- 
ment; the  rope  passed  over  her  black  head  and  under 
her  scarlet-stockinged  legs  with  a  precision  and  regu- 
larity that  was  like  machinery ;  but  there  was  nothing 
mechanical  in  the  infinite  variety  and  sweetness  of  her 
inclinations,  and  the  spontaneous  agile  flexure  of  her 
lean  waist  and  hips.  There  was  one  variation  favourite 
with  her,  in  which  she  crossed  her  hands  before  her 
with  a  motion  not  unlike  that  of  weaving,  which  was 
admirably  intricate  and  complete.  And  when  the  two 
took  the  rope  together  and  whirled  in  and  out  with  oc- 
casional interruptions,  there  was  something  Italian  in 
the  type  of  both— in  the  length  of  nose,  in  the  slimness 
and  accuracy  of  the  shapes— and  something  gay  and 
harmonious  in  the  double  movement,  that  added  to  the 
whole  scene  a  Southern  element,  and  took  me  over  sea 
and  land  into  distant  and  beautiful  places.  Nor  was 
this  impression  lessened  when  the  elder  girl  took  in  her 
arms  a  fair-haired  baby,  and  while  the  others  held  the 
rope  for  her,  turned  and  gyrated,  and  went  in  and  out 
over  it  lightly,  with  a  quiet  regularity  that  seemed  as  if 
it  might  go  on  for  ever.  Somehow,  incongruous  as 
was  the  occupation,  she  reminded  me  of  Italian  Madon- 
nas. And  now,  as  before  in  the  hotel  drawing-room, 
the  humorous  element  was  to  be  introduced ;  only  this 
time  it  was  in  broad  farce.  The  funniest  little  girl,  with 
a  mottled  complexion  and  a  big,  damaged  nose,  and 
looking  for  all  the  world  like  any  dirty,  broken-nosed 
doll  in  a  nursery  lumber-room,  came  forward  to  take 
her  turn.  While  the  others  swung  the  rope  for  her  as 
gently  as  it  could  be  done— a  mere  mockery  of  move- 

95 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

ment— and  playfully  taunted  her  timidity,  she  passaged 
backwards  and  forwards  in  a  pretty  flutter  of  indecision, 
putting  up  her  shoulders  and  laughing  with  the  embar- 
rassed laughter  of  children  by  the  water's  edge,  eager 
to  bathe  and  yet  fearful.  There  never  was  anything  at 
once  so  droll  and  so  pathetic.  One  did  not  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  to  cry.  And  when  at  last  she  had  made  an 
end  of  all  her  deprecations  and  drawings  back,  and  sum- 
moned up  heart  enough  to  straddle  over  the  rope,  one 
leg  at  a  time,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  her  ruffle  herself  up 
like  a  peacock  and  go  away  down  the  lane  with  her 
damaged  nose,  seeming  to  think  discretion  the  better 
part  of  valour,  and  rather  uneasy  lest  they  should  ask 
her  to  repeat  the  exploit.  Much  as  I  had  enjoyed  the 
grace  of  the  older  girls,  it  was  now  just  as  it  had  been 
before  in  France,  and  the  clumsiness  of  the  child  seemed 
to  have  a  significance  and  a  sort  of  beauty  of  its  own, 
quite  above  this  grace  of  the  others  in  power  to  affect 
the  heart.  I  had  looked  on  with  a  certain  sense  of 
balance  and  completion  at  the  silent,  rapid,  masterly 
evolutions  of  the  eldest;  I  had  been  pleased  by  these  in 
the  way  of  satisfaction.  But  when  little  broken-nose 
began  her  pantomime  of  indecision  I  grew  excited. 
There  was  something  quite  fresh  and  poignant  in  the 
delight  1  took  in  her  imperfect  movements.  I  remem- 
ber, for  instance,  that  I  moved  my  own  shoulders,  as 
if  to  imitate  her;  really,  I  suppose,  with  an  inarticulate 
wish  to  help  her  out. 

Now,  there  are  many  reasons  why  this  gracelessness 
of  young  children  should  be  pretty  and  sympathetic  to 
us.  And,  first,  there  is  an  interest  as  of  battle.  It  is 
in  travail  and  hughsible  Jiasco  that  the  young  school 

96 


NOTES  ON  THE  MOVEMENTS  OF  YOUNG  CHILDREN 

their  bodies  to  beautiful  expression,  as  they  school  their 
minds.  We  seem,  in  watching  them,  to  divine  antag- 
onists pitted  one  against  the  other;  and,  as  in  other 
wars,  so  in  this  war  of  the  intelligence  against  the  un- 
willing body,  we  do  not  wish  to  see  even  the  cause  of 
progress  triumph  without  some  honourable  toil;  and 
we  are  so  sure  of  the  ultimate  result,  that  it  pleases  us 
to  linger  in  pathetic  sympathy  over  these  reverses  of 
the  early  campaign,  just  as  we  do  over  the  troubles  that 
environ  the  heroine  of  a  novel  on  her  way  to  the  happy 
ending.  Again,  people  are  very  ready  to  disown  the 
pleasure  they  take  in  a  thing  merely  because  it  is  big, 
as  an  Alp,  or  merely  because  it  is  little,  as  a  little  child; 
and  yet  this  pleasure  is  surely  as  legitimate  as  another. 
There  is  much  of  it  here;  we  have  an  irrational  indul- 
gence for  small  folk;  we  ask  but  little  where  there  is  so 
little  to  ask  it  of;  we  cannot  overcome  our  astonishment 
that  they  should  be  able  to  move  at  all,  and  are  interested 
in  their  movements  somewhat  as  we  are  interested  in 
the  movements  of  a  puppet.  And  again,  there  is  a 
prolongation  of  expectancy  when,  as  in  these  move- 
ments of  children,  we  are  kept  continually  on  the  very 
point  of  attainment  and  ever  turned  away  and  tantalised 
by  some  humorous  imperfection.  This  is  altogether 
absent  in  the  secure  and  accomplished  movements  of  per- 
sons more  fully  grown.  The  tight-rope  walker  does  not 
walk  so  freely  of  so  well  as  any  one  else  can  walk  upon 
a  good  road;  and  yet  we  like  to  watch  him  for  the 
mere  sake  of  the  difficulty;  we  like  to  see  his  vacilla- 
tions ;  we  like  this  last  so  much  even,  that  I  am  told  a 
really  artistic  tight-rope  walker  must  feign  to  be  troubled 
in  his  balance,  even  if  he  is  not  so  really.     And  again, 

97 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

we  have  in  these  baby  efforts  an  assurance  of  sponta- 
neity that  we  do  not  have  often.  We  know  this  at  least 
certainly,  that  the  child  tries  to  dance  for  its  own  plea- 
sure, and  not  for  any  by-end  of  ostentation  and  con- 
formity. If  we  did  not  know  it  we  should  see  it. 
There  is  a  sincerity,  a  directness,  an  impulsive  truth, 
about  their  free  gestures  that  shows  throughout  all 
imperfection,  and  it  is  to  us  as  a  reminiscence  of  primi- 
tive festivals  and  the  Golden  Age.  Lastly,  there  is  in 
the  sentiment  much  of  a  simple  human  compassion  for 
creatures  more  helpless  than  ourselves.  One  nearly 
ready  to  die  is  pathetic;  and  so  is  one  scarcely  ready 
to  live.  In  view  of  their  future,  our  heart  is  softened 
to  these  clumsy  little  ones.  They  will  be  more  adroit 
when  they  are  not  so  happy. 

Unfortunately,  then,  this  character  that  so  much  de- 
lights us  is  not  one  that  can  be  preserved  by  any  plastic 
art.  It  turns,  as  we  have  seen,  upon  consideration  not 
really  aesthetic.  Art  may  deal  with  the  slim  freedom  of 
a  few  years  later;  but  with  this  fettered  impulse,  with 
these  stammering  motions,  she  is  powerless  to  do  more 
than  stereotype  what  is  ungraceful,  and,  in  the  doing  of 
it,  lose  all  pathos  and  humanity.  So  these  humorous  little 
ones  must  go  away  into  the  limbo  of  beautiful  things 
that  are  not  beautiful  for  art,  there  to  wait  a  more  per- 
fect age  before  they  sit  for  their  portraits. 


ON  THE   ENJOYMENT  OF  UNPLEASANT  PLACES 
(1874) 

It  is  a  difficult  matter  to  make  the  most  of  any  given 
place,  and  we  have  much  in  our  own  power.  Things 
looked  at  patiently  from  one  side  after  another  generally 
end  by  showing  a  side  that  is  beautiful.  A  few  months 
ago  some  words  were  said  in  the  Portfolio  as  to  an 
"  austere  regimen  in  scenery  " ;  and  such  a  discipline  was 
then  recommended  as  "  healthful  and  strengthening  to 
the  taste."  That  is  the  text,  so  to  speak,  of  the  present 
essay.  This  discipline  in  scenery,  it  must  be  understood, 
is  something  more  than  a  mere  walk  before  breakfast  to 
whet  the  appetite.  For  when  we  are  put  down  in  some 
unsightly  neighbourhood,  and  especially  if  we  have  come 
to  be  more  or  less  dependent  on  what  we  see,  we  must 
set  ourselves  to  hunt  out  beautiful  things  with  all  the 
ardour  and  patience  of  a  botanist  after  a  rare  plant. 
Day  by  day  we  perfect  ourselves  in  the  art  of  seeing 
nature  more  favourably.  We  learn  to  live  with  her,  as 
people  learn  to  live  with  fretful  or  violent  spouses :  to 
dwell  lovingly  on  what  is  good,  and  shut  our  eyes 
against  all  that  is  bleak  or  inharmonious.  We  learn, 
also,  to  come  to  each  place  in  the  right  spirit.     The 

99 


NOTES  AND    ESSAYS 

traveller,  as  Brantome  quaintly  tells  us,  "fait  des  dis- 
cours  en  sot  pour  se  soutenir  en  chemin'' ;  and  into  these 
discourses  he  weaves  something  out  of  all  that  he  sees 
and  suffers  by  the  way;  they  take  their  tone  greatly 
from  the  varying  character  of  the  scene;  a  sharp  ascent 
brings  different  thoughts  from  a  level  road;  and  the 
man's  fancies  grow  lighter  as  he  comes  out  of  the  wood 
into  a  clearing.  Nor  does  the  scenery  any  more  affect 
the  thoughts  than  the  thoughts  affect  the  scenery.  We 
see  places  through  our  humours  as  through  differently 
coloured  glasses.  We  are  ourselves  a  term  in  the  equa- 
tion, a  note  of  the  chord,  and  make  discord  or  harmony 
almost  at  will.  There  is  no  fear  for  the  result,  if  we 
can  but  surrender  ourselves  sufficiently  to  the  country 
that  surrounds  and  follows  us,  so  that  we  are  ever  think- 
ing suitable  thoughts  or  telling  ourselves  some  suitable 
sort  of  story  as  we  go.  We  become  thus,  in  some  sense, 
a  centre  of  beauty ;  we  are  provocative  of  beauty,  much 
as  a  gentle  and  sincere  character  is  provocative  of  sincer- 
ity and  gentleness  in  others.  And  even  where  there  is 
no  harmony  to  be  elicited  by  the  quickest  and  most  obe- 
dient of  spirits,  we  may  still  embellish  a  place  with  some 
attraction  of  romance.  We  may  learn  to  go  far  afield 
for  associations,  and  handle  them  lightly  when  we  have 
found  them.  Sometimes  an  old  print  comes  to  our  aid ; 
I  have  seen  many  a  spot  lit  up  at  once  with  picturesque 
imaginations,  by  a  reminiscence  of  Callot,  or  Sadeler,  or 
Paul  Brill.  Dick  Turpin  has  been  my  lay  figure  for  many 
an  English  lane.  And  I  suppose  the  Trossachs  would 
hardly  be  the  Trossachs  for  most  tourists  if  a  man  of 
admirable  romantic  instinct  had  not  peopled  it  for  them 
with  harmonious  figures,   and  brought  them  thither 


ON   THE   ENJOYMENT   OF   UNPLEASANT   PLACES 

with  minds  rightly  prepared  for  the  impression.  There 
is  half  the  battle  in  this  preparation.  For  instance:  I 
have  rarely  been  able  to  visit,  in  the  proper  spirit,  the 
wild  and  inhospitable  places  of  our  own  Highlands.  I 
am  happier  where  it  is  tame  and  fertile,  and  not  readily 
pleased  without  trees.  I  understand  that  there  are  some 
phases  of  mental  trouble  that  harmonise  well  with  such 
surroundings,  and  that  some  persons,  by  the  dispensing 
power  of  the  imagination,  can  go  back  several  centuries 
in  spirit,  and  put  themselves  into  sympathy  with  ihe 
hunted,  houseless,  unsociable  way  of  life  that  was  in  its 
place  upon  these  savage  hills.  Now,  when  I  am  sad,  I 
like  nature  to  charm  me  out  of  my  sadness,  like  David 
before  Saul ;  and  the  thought  of  these  past  ages  strikes 
nothing  in  me  but  an  unpleasant  pity ;  so  that  1  can  never 
hit  on  the  right  humour  for  this  sort  of  landscape,  and 
lose  much  pleasure  in  consequence.  Still,  even  here,  if 
I  were  only  let  alone,  and  time  enough  were  given..  I 
should  have  all  manner  of  pleasures,  and  take  many 
clear  and  beautiful  images  away  with  me  when  I  left. 
When  we  cannot  think  ourselves  into  sympathy  with 
the  great  features  of  a  country,  we  learn  to  ignore  ihem, 
and  put  our  head  among  the  grass  for  flowers,  or  pore, 
for  long  times  together,  over  the  changeful  current  of 
a  stream.  We  come  down  to  the  sermon  in  stones, 
when  we  are  shut  out  from  any  poem  in  the  spread 
landscape.  We  begin  to  peep  and  botanise,  we  take  an 
interest  in  birds  and  insects,  we  find  many  things  beau- 
tiful in  miniature.  The  reader  will  recollect  the  little 
summer  scene  in  IVuthering  Heights— the  one  warm 
scene,  perhaps,  in  all  that  powerful,  miserable  novel— 
and  the  great  feature  that  is  made  therein  by  grasses 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

and  flowers  and  a  little  sunshine:  this  is  in  the  spirit  of 
which  I  now  speak.  And,  lastly,  we  can  go  indoors; 
interiors  are  sometimes  as  beautiful,  often  more  pic- 
turesque, than  the  shows  of  the  open  air,  and  they  have 
that  quality  of  shelter  of  which  I  shall  presently  have 
more  to  say. 

With  all  this  in  mind,  I  have  often  been  tempted  to 
put  forth  the  paradox  that  any  place  is  good  enough  to 
live  a  life  in,  while  it  is  only  in  a  few,  and  those  highly 
favoured,  that  we  can  pass  a  few  hours  agreeably.  For, 
if  we  only  stay  long  enough,  we  become  at  home  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Reminiscences  spring  up,  like  flowers, 
about  uninteresting  corners.  We  forget  to  some  degree 
the  superior  loveliness  of  other  places,  and  fall  into  a 
tolerant  and  sympathetic  spirit  which  is  its  own  reward 
and  justification.  Looking  back  the  other  day  on  some 
recollections  of  my  own,  I  was  astonished  to  find  how 
much  I  owed  to  such  a  residence;  six  weeks  in  one 
unpleasant  country-side  had  done  more,  it  seemed,  to 
quicken  and  educate  my  sensibilities  than  many  years  in 
places  that  jumped  more  nearly  with  my  inclination. 

The  country  to  which  I  refer  was  a  level  and  treeless 
plateau,  over  which  the  winds  cut  like  a  whip.  For 
miles  on  miles  it  was  the  same.  A  river,  indeed,  fell 
into  the  sea  near  the  town  where  I  resided ;  but  the  val- 
ley of  the  river  was  shallow  and  bald,  for  as  far  up  as 
ever  I  had  the  heart  to  follow  it.  There  were  roads, 
certainly,  but  roads  that  had  no  beauty  or  interest;  for, 
as  there  was  no  timber,  and  but  little  irregularity  of  sur- 
face, you  saw  your  whole  walk  exposed  to  you  from 
the  beginning:  there  was  nothing  left  to  fancy,  nothing 
to  expect,  nothing  to  see  by  the  wayside,  save  here 

102 


ON   THE  ENJOYMENT   OF   UNPLEASANT   PLACES 

and  there  an  unhomely-Iooking  homestead,  and  here 
and  there  a  solitary,  spectacled  stone-breaker;  and  you 
were  only  accompanied,  as  you  went  doggedly  forward, 
by  the  gaunt  telegraph-posts  and  the  hum  of  the  resonant 
wires  in  the  keen  sea-wind.  To  one  who  had  learned 
to  know  their  song  in  warm  pleasant  places  by  the 
Mediterranean,  it  seemed  to  taunt  the  country,  and  make 
it  still  bleaker  by  suggested  contrast.  Even  the  waste 
places  by  the  side  of  the  road  were  not,  as  Hawthorne 
liked  to  put  it,  "  taken  back  to  Nature  "  by  any  decent 
covering  of  vegetation.  Wherever  the  land  had  the 
chance,  it  seemed  to  lie  fallow.  There  is  a  certain 
tawny  nudity  of  the  South,  bare  sunburnt  plains,  col- 
oured like  a  lion,  and  hills  clothed  only  in  the  blue 
transparent  air;  but  this  was  of  another  description— 
this  was  the  nakedness  of  the  North ;  the  earth  seemed 
to  know  that  it  was  naked,  and  was  ashamed  and  cold. 
It  seemed  to  be  always  blowing  on  that  coast.  In- 
deed, this  had  passed  into  the  speech  of  the  inhabitants, 
and  they  saluted  each  other  when  they  met  with 
"Breezy,  breezy,"  instead  of  the  customary  "Fine 
day"  of  farther  south.  These  continual  winds  were 
not  like  the  harvest  breeze,  that  just  keeps  an  equable 
pressure  against  your  face  as  you  walk,  and  serves  to 
set  all  the  trees  talking  over  your  head,  or  bring  round 
you  the  smell  of  the  wet  surface  of  the  country  after  a 
shower.  They  were  of  the  bitter,  hard,  persistent  sort, 
that  interferes  with  sight  and  respiration,  and  makes 
the  eyes  sore.  Even  such  winds  as  these  have  their 
own  merit  in  proper  time  and  place.  It  is  pleasant  to 
see  them  brandish  great  masses  of  shadow.  And  what 
a  power  they  have  over  the  colour  of  the  world !    How 

103 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

they  ruffle  the  solid  woodlands  in  their  passage,  and 
make  them  shudder  and  whiten  like  a  single  willow! 
There  is  nothing  more  vertiginous  than  a  wind  like  this 
among  the  woods,  with  all  its  sights  and  noises;  and 
the  effect  gets  between  some  painters  and  their  sober 
eyesight,  so  that,  even  when  the  rest  of  their  picture 
is  calm,  the  foliage  is  coloured  like  foliage  in  a  gale. 
There  was  nothing,  however,  of  this  sort  to  be  noticed 
in  a  country  where  there  were  no  trees  and  hardly  any 
shadows,  save  the  passive  shadows  of  clouds  or  those 
of  rigid  houses  and  walls.  But  the  wind  was  neverthe- 
less an  occasion  of  pleasure;  for  nowhere  could  you 
taste  more  fully  the  pleasure  of  a  sudden  lull,  or  a  place 
of  opportune  shelter.  The  reader  knows  what  1  mean ; 
he  must  remember  how,  when  he  has  sat  himself  down 
behind  a  dyke  on  a  hill-side,  he  delighted  to  hear  the 
wind  hiss  vainly  through  the  crannies  at  his  back ;  how 
his  body  tingled  all  over  with  warmth,  and  it  began  to 
dawn  upon  him,  with  a  sort  of  slow  surprise,  that  the 
country  was  beautiful,  the  heather  purple,  and  the  far- 
away hills  all  marbled  with  sun  and  shadow.  Words- 
worth, in  a  beautiful  passage  of  the  '*  Prelude,"  has  used 
this  as  a  figure  for  the  feeling  struck  in  us  by  the  quiet 
by-streets  of  London  after  the  uproar  of  the  great  thor- 
oughfares ;  and  the  comparison  may  be  turned  the  other 
way  with  as  good  effect : 

"  Meanwhile  the  roar  continues,  till  at  length. 
Escaped  as  from  an  enemy,  we  turn 
Abruptly  into  some  sequester'd  nook, 
Still  as  a  shelter'd  place  when  winds  blow  loud!" 

I  remember  meeting  a  man  once,  in  a  train,  who  told 
me  of  what  must  have  been  quite  the  most  perfect  in- 

104 


ON   THE   ENJOYMENT  OF  UNPLEASANT   PLACES 

Stance  of  this  pleasure  of  escape.  He  had  gone  up,  one 
sunny,  windy  morning,  to  the  top  of  a  great  cathedral 
somewhere  abroad;  I  think  it  was  Cologne  Cathedral, 
the  great  unfinished  marvel  by  the  Rhine;  and  after  a 
long  while  in  dark  stairways,  he  issued  at  last  into  the 
sunshine,  on  a  platform  high  above  the  town.  At  that 
elevation  it  was  quite  still  and  warm ;  the  gale  was  only 
in  the  lower  strata  of  the  air,  and  he  had  forgotten  it  in 
the  quiet  interior  of  the  church  and  during  his  long  as- 
cent; and  so  you  may  judge  of  his  surprise  when,  rest- 
ing his  arms  on  the  sunlit  balustrade  and  looking  over 
into  the  Place  far  below  him,  he  saw  the  good  people 
holding  on  their  hats  and  leaning  hard  against  the  wind 
as  they  walked.  There  is  something,  to  my  fancy, 
quite  perfect  in  this  little  experience  of  my  fellow- 
traveller's.  The  ways  of  men  seem  always  very  trivial 
to  us  when  we  find  ourselves  alone  on  a  church-top, 
with  the  blue  sky  and  a  few  tall  pinnacles,  and  see  far 
below  us  the  steep  roofs  and  foreshortened  buttresses, 
and  the  silent  activity  of  the  city  streets ;  but  how  much 
more  must  they  not  have  seemed  so  to  him  as  he  stood, 
not  only  above  other  men's  business,  but  above  other 
men's  climate,  in  a  golden  zone  like  Apollo's! 

This  was  the  sort  of  pleasure  I  found  in  the  country 
of  which  I  write.  The  pleasure  was  to  be  out  of  the 
wind,  and  to  keep  it  in  memory  all  the  time,  and  hug 
oneself  upon  the  shelter.  And  it  was  only  by  the  sea 
that  any  such  sheltered  places  were  to  be  found.  Be- 
tween the  black  worm-eaten  headlands  there  are  little 
bights  and  havens,  well  screened  from  the  wind  and  the 
commotion  of  the  external  sea,  where  the  sand  and 
weeds  look  up  into  the  gazer's  face  from  a  depth  of 
tranquil  water,  and  the  sea-birds,  screaming  and  flicker- 

105 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

ing  from  the  ruined  crags,  alone  disturb  the  silence  and 
the  sunshine.  One  such  place  has  impressed  itself  on 
my  memory  beyond  all  others.  On  a  rock  by  the 
water's  edge,  old  fighting  men  of  the  Norse  breed  had 
planted  a  double  castle;  the  two  stood  wall  to  wall  like 
semi-detached  villas ;  and  yet  feud  had  run  so  high  be- 
tween their  owners,  that  one,  from  out  of  a  window, 
shot  the  other  as  he  stood  in  his  own  doorway.  There  is 
something  in  the  juxtaposition  of  these  two  enemies  full 
of  tragic  irony.  It  is  grim  to  think  of  bearded  men  and 
bitter  women  taking  hateful  counsel  together  about  the 
two  hall-fires  at  night,  when  the  sea  boomed  against  the 
foundations  and  the  wild  winter  wind  was  loose  over 
the  battlements.  And  in  the  study  we  may  reconstruct 
for  ourselves  some  pale  figure  of  what  life  then  was. 
Not  so  when  we  are  there;  when  we  are  there  such 
thoughts  come  to  us  only  to  intensify  a  contrary  impres- 
sion, and  association  is  turned  against  itself.  I  remem- 
ber walking  thither  three  afternoons  in  succession,  my 
eyes  weary  with  being  set  against  the  wind,  and  how, 
dropping  suddenly  over  the  edge  of  the  down,  I  found 
myself  in  a  new  world  of  warmth  and  shelter.  The 
wind,  from  which  I  had  escaped,  **as  from  an  enemy," 
was  seemingly  quite  local.  It  carried  no  clouds  with  it, 
and  came  from  such  a  quarter  that  it  did  not  trouble- 
the  sea  within  view.  The  two  castles,  black  and  ruin- 
ous as  the  rocks  about  them,  were  still  distinguishable 
from  these  by  something  more  insecure  and  fantastic  in 
the  outline,  something  that  the  last  storm  had  left  im- 
minent and  the  next  would  demolish  entirely.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  render  in  words  the  sense  of  peace  that 
took  possession  of  me  on  these  three  afternoons.     It 

106 


ON  THE  ENJOYMENT  OF  UNPLEASANT   PLACES 

was  helped  out,  as  I  have  said,  by  the  contrast.  The 
shore  was  battered  and  bemauled  by  previous  tempests ; 
I  had  the  memory  at  heart  of  the  insane  strife  of  the 
pigmies  who  had  erected  these  two  castles  and  lived  in 
them  in  mutual  distrust  and  enmity,  and  knew  I  had 
only  to  put  my  head  out  of  this  little  cup  of  shelter  to 
find  the  hard  wind  blowing  in  my  eyes ;  and  yet  there 
were  the  two  great  tracts  of  motionless  blue  air  and 
peaceful  sea  looking  on,  unconcerned  and  apart,  at  the 
turmoil  of  the  present  moment  and  the  memorials  of 
the  precarious  past.  There  is  ever  something  transitory 
and  fretful  in  the  impression  of  a  high  wind  under  a 
cloudless  sky ;  it  seems  to  have  no  root  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  things;  it  must  speedily  begin  to  faint  and 
wither  away  like  a  cut  flower.  And  on  those  days  the 
thought  of  the  wind  and  the  thought  of  human  life 
came  very  near  together  in  my  mind.  Our  noisy  years 
did  indeed  seem  moments  in  the  being  of  the  eternal 
silence:  and  the  wind,  in  the  face  of  that  great  field  of 
stationary  blue,  was  as  the  wind  of  a  butterfly's  wing. 
The  placidity  of  the  sea  was  a  thing  likewise  to  be  re- 
membered. Shelley  speaks  of  the  sea  as  "  hungering 
for  calm,"  and  in  this  place  one  learned  to  understand 
the  phrase.  Looking  down  into  these  green  waters 
from  the  broken  edge  of  the  rock,  or  swimming  "lei- 
surely in  the  sunshine,  it  seemed  to  me  that  they  were 
enjoying  their  own  tranquillity;  and  when  now  and 
again  it  was  disturbed  by  a  wind  ripple  on  the  surface, 
or  the  quick  black  passage  of  a  fish  far  below,  they  set- 
tled back  again  (one  could  fancy)  with  relief. 

On  shore  too,  in  the  little  nook  of  shelter,  everything 
was  so  subdued  and  still  that  the  least  particular  struck 

107 


NOTES  AND    ESSAYS 

in  me  a  pleasurable  surprise.  The  desultory  crackling 
of  the  whin-pods  in  the  afternoon  sun  usurped  the  ear. 
The  hot,  sweet  breath  of  the  bank,  that  had  been  satu- 
rated all  day  long  with  sunshine,  and  now  exhaled  it 
into  my  face,  was  like  the  breath  of  a  fellow-creature. 
I  remember  that  I  was  haunted  by  two  lines  of  French 
verse;  in  some  dumb  way  they  seemed  to  fit  my  sur- 
roundings and  give  expression  to  the  contentment  that 
was  in  me,  and  I  kept  repeating  to  myself— 

"  Mon  coeur  est  un  luth  suspendu, 
Sitot  qu'on  le  touche,  il  resonnc." 

I  can  give  no  reason  why  these  lines  came  to  me  at 
this  time;  and  for  that  very  cause  I  repeat  them  here. 
For  all  I  know,  they  may  serve  to  complete  the  impres- 
sion in  the  mind  of  the  reader,  as  they  were  certainly  a 
part  of  it  for  me. 

And  this  happened  to  me  in  the  place  of  all  others 
where  I  liked  least  to  stay.  When  I  think  of  it  I  grow 
ashamed  of  my  own  ingratitude.  "  Out  of  the  strong 
came  forth  sweetness."  There,  in  the  bleak  and  gusty 
North,  I  received,  perhaps,  my  strongest  impression  of 
peace.  I  saw  the  sea  to  be  great  and  calm ;  and  the 
earth,  in  that  little  corner,  was  all  alive  and  friendly  to 
me.  So,  wherever  a  man  is,  he  will  find  something  to 
please  and  pacify  him :  in  the  town  he  will  meet  pleas- 
ant faces  of  men  and  women,  and  see  beautiful  flowers 
at  a  window,  or  hear  a  cage-bird  singing  at  the  corner 
of  the  gloomiest  street;  and  for  the  country,  there  is  no 
country  without  some  amenity— let  him  only  look  for 
it  in  the  right  spirit,  and  he  will  surely  find. 


108 


VI 

AN    AUTUMN    EFFECT 

(1875) 

**  Nous  ne  decrivons  jamais  mieux  la  nature  que  lorsque  nous  nous 
efforf ons  d'exprimer  sobrement  et  simplement  I'impression  que  nous  en 
avons  re9ue."--M.  Andre  Theuriet,  "  L'Automne  dans  les  bois," 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  ist  Oct.,  1874,  p.  562.1 

A  COUNTRY  rapidly  passed  through  under  favourable 
auspices  may  leave  upon  us  a  unity  of  impression  that 
would  only  be  disturbed  and  dissipated  if  we  stayed 
longer.  Clear  vision  goes  with  the  quick  foot.  Things 
fall  for  us  into  a  sort  of  natural  perspective  when  we 
see  them  for  a  moment  in  going  by;  we  generalise 
boldly  and  simply,  and  are  gone  before  the  sun  is  over- 
cast, before  the  rain  falls,  before  the  season  can  steal 
like  a  dial-hand  from  his  figure,  before  the  lights  and 
shadows,  shifting  round  towards  nightfall,  can  show 

1  I  had  nearly  finished  the  transcription  of  the  following  pages,  when 
I  saw  on  a  friend's  table  the  number  containing  the  piece  from  which 
this  sentence  is  extracted,  and,  struck  with  a  similarity  of  title,  took  it 
home  with  me  and  read  it  with  indescribable  satisfaction.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  more  envy  M.  Theuriet  the  pleasure  of  having  written 
this  delightful  article,  or  the  reader  the  pleasure,  which  I  hope  he  has 
still  before  him,  of  reading  it  once  and  again,  and  lingering  over  the 
passages  that  please  him  most. 

109 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

US  the  Other  side  of  things,  and  belie  what  they  showed 
us  in  the  morning.  We  expose  our  mind  to  the  land- 
scape (as  we  would  expose  the  prepared  plate  in  the 
camera)  for  the  moment  only  during  which  the  effect 
endures ;  and  we  are  away  before  the  effect  can  change. 
Hence  we  shall  have  in  our  memories  a  long  scroll  of 
continuous  wayside  pictures,  all  imbued  already  with 
the  prevailing  sentiment  of  the  season,  the  weather, 
and  the  landscape,  and  certain  to  be  unified  more  and 
more,  as  time  goes  on,  by  the  unconscious  processes  of 
thought.  So  that  we  who  have  only  looked  at  a  coun- 
try over  our  shoulder,  so  to  speak,  as  we  went  by,  will 
have  a  conception  of  it  far  more  memorable  and  articu- 
late than  a  man  who  has  lived  there  all  his  life  from  a 
child  upwards,  and  had  his  impression  of  to-day  modi- 
fied by  that  of  to-morrow,  and  belied  by  that  of  the  day 
after,  till  at  length  the  stable  characteristics  of  the  coun- 
try are  all  blotted  out  from  him  behind  the  confusion  of 
variable  effect. 

I  began  my  little  pilgrimage  in  the  most  enviable  of 
all  humours :  that  in  which  a  person,  with  a  sufficiency 
of  money  and  a  knapsack,  turns  his  back  on  a  town 
and  walks  forward  into  a  country  of  which  he  knows 
only  by  the  vague  report  of  others.  Such  an  one  has 
not  surrendered  his  will  and  contracted  for  the  next 
hundred  miles,  like  a  man  on  a  railway.  He  may 
change  his  mind  at  every  finger-post,  and,  where  ways 
meet,  follow  vague  preferences  freely  and  go  the  low 
road  or  the  high,  choose  the  shadow  or  the  sunshine, 
suffer  himself  to  be  tempted  by  the  lane  that  turns  im- 
mediately into  the  woods,  or  the  broad  road  that  lies 
open  before  him  into  the  distance,  and  shows  him  the 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

far-off  spires  of  some  city,  or  a  range  of  mountain-tops, 
or  a  rim  of  sea,  perhaps,  along  a  low  horizon.  In 
short,  he  may  gratify  his  every  whim  and  fancy,  with- 
out a  pang  of  reproving  conscience,  or  the  least  jostle  to 
his  self-respect.  It  is  true,  however,  that  most  men  do 
not  possess  the  faculty  of  free  action,  the  priceless  gift 
of  being  able  to  live  for  the  moment  only;  and  as  they 
begin  to  go  forward  on  their  journey,  they  will  find 
that  they  have  made  for  themselves  new  fetters.  Slight 
projects  they  may  have  entertained  for  a  moment,  half 
in  jest,  become  iron  laws  to  them,  they  know  not  why. 
They  will  be  led  by  the  nose  by  these  vague  reports  of 
which  I  spoke  above;  and  the  mere  fact  that  their  in- 
formant mentioned  one  village  and  not  another  will 
compel  their  footsteps  with  inexplicable  power.  And 
yet  a  little  while,  yet  a  few  days  of  this  fictitious  liberty, 
and  they  will  begin  to  hear  imperious  voices  calling  on 
them  to  return;  and  some  passion,  some  duty,  some 
worthy  or  unworthy  expectation,  will  set  its  hand  upon 
their  shoulder  and  lead  them  back  into  the  old  paths. 
Once  and  again  we  have  all  made  the  experiment.  We 
know  the  end  of  it  right  well.  And  yet  if  we  make  it 
for  the  hundredth  time  to-morrow,  it  will  have  the  same 
charm  as  ever;  our  heart  will  beat  and  our  eyes  will  be 
bright,  as  we  leave  the  town  behind  us,  and  we  shall 
feel  once  again  (as  we  have  felt  so  often  before)  that  we 
are  cutting  ourselves  loose  for  ever  from  our  whole  past 
life,  with  all  its  sins  and  follies  and  circumscriptions,  and 
go  forward  as  a  new  creature  into  a  new  world. 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  I  had  this  first  enthusiasm 
to  encourage  me  up  the  long  hill  above  High  Wycombe; 
for  the  day  was  a  bad  day  for  walking  at  best,  and  now 

III 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

began  to  draw  towards  afternoon,  dull,  heavy,  and  life- 
less. A  pall  of  grey  cloud  covered  the  sky,  and  its 
colour  reacted  on  the  colour  of  the  landscape.  Near  at 
hand,  indeed,  the  hedgerow  trees  were  still  fairly  green, 
shot  through  with  bright  autumnal  yellows,  bright  as 
sunshine.  But  a  little  way  off,  the  solid  bricks  of  wood- 
land that  lay  squarely  on  slope  and  hill-top  were  not 
green,  but  russet  and  grey,  and  ever  less  russet  and 
more  grey  as  they  drew  off  into  the  distance.  As  they 
drew  off  into  the  distance,  also,  the  woods  seemed  to 
mass  themselves  together,  and  lie  thin  and  straight,  like 
clouds,  upon  the  limit  of  one's  view.  Not  that  this 
massing  was  complete,  or  gave  the  idea  of  any  extent 
of  forest,  for  every  here  and  there  the  trees  would  break 
up  and  go  down  into  a  valley  in  open  order,  or  stand  in 
long  Indian  file  along  the  horizon,  tree  after  tree  relieved, 
foolishly  enough,  against  the  sky.  I  say  foolishly 
enough,  although  I  have  seen  the  effect  employed  clev- 
erly in  art,  and  such  long  line  of  single  trees  thrown  out 
against  the  customary  sunset  of  a  Japanese  picture  with 
a  certain  fantastic  effect  that  was  not  to  be  despised; 
but  this  was  over  water  and  level  land,  where  it  did  not 
jar,  as  here,  with  the  soft  contour  of  hills  and  valleys. 
The  whole  scene  had  an  indefinable  look  of  being 
painted,  the  colour  was  so  abstract  and  correct,  and  there 
was  something  so  sketchy  and  merely  impressional 
about  these  distant  single  trees  on  the  horizon  that  one 
was  forced  to  think  of  it  all  as  of  a  clever  French  land- 
scape. For  it  is  rather  in  nature  that  we  see  resem- 
blance to  art,  than  in  art  to  nature;  and  we  say  a 
hundred  times,  "  How  like  a  picture!  "  for  once  that  we 
say,  "  How  like  the  truth !  "    The  forms  in  which  we 

112 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

learn  to  think  of  landscape  are  forms  that  we  have  got 
from  painted  canvas.  Any  man  can  see  and  understand 
a  picture ;  it  is  reserved  for  the  few  to  separate  anything 
out  of  the  confusion  of  nature,  and  see  that  distinctly 
and  with  intelligence. 

The  sun  came  out  before  I  had  been  long  on  my  way; 
and  as  I  had  got  by  that  time  to  the  top  of  the  ascent, 
and  was  now  treading  a  labyrinth  of  confined  by-roads, 
my  whole  view  brightened  considerably  in  colour,  for 
it  was  the  distance  only  that  was  grey  and  cold,  and  the 
distance  I  could  see  no  longer.  Overhead  there  was  a 
wonderful  carolling  of  larks  which  seemed  to  follow  me 
as  I  went.  Indeed,  during  all  the  time  I  was  in  that 
country  the  larks  did  not  desert  me.  The  air  was  alive 
with  them  from  High  Wycombe  to  Tring;  and  as,  day 
after  day,  their  "  shrill  delight "  fell  upon  me  out  of  the 
vacant  sky,  they  began  to  take  such  a  prominence  over 
other  conditions,  and  form  so  integral  a  part  of  my  con- 
ception of  the  country,  that  I  could  have  baptised  it  "  The 
Country  of  Larks."  This,  of  course,  might  just  as  well 
have  been  in  early  spring ;  but  everything  else  was  deeply 
imbued  with  the  sentiment  of  the  later  year.  There  was 
no  stir  of  insects  in  the  grass.  The  sunshine  was  more 
golden,  and  gave  less  heat  than  summer  sunshine;  and 
the  shadows  under  the  hedge  were  somewhat  blue  and 
misty.  It  was  only  in  autumn  that  you  could  have  seen 
the  mingled  green  and  yellow  of  the  elm  foliage,  and 
the  fallen  leaves  that  lay  about  the  road,  and  covered 
the  surface  of  wayside  pools  so  thickly  that  the  sun 
was  reflected  only  here  and  there  from  little  joints  and 
pinholes  in  that  brown  coat  of  proof;  or  that  your  ear 
would  have  been  troubled,  as  you  went  forward,  by 

n3 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

the  occasional  report  of  fowling-pieces  from  all  direc- 
tions and  all  degrees  of  distance. 

For  a  long  time  this  dropping  fire  was  the  one  sign  of 
human  activity  that  came  to  disturb  me  as  I  walked. 
The  lanes  were  profoundly  still.  They  would  have  been 
sad  but  for  the  sunshine  and  the  singing  of  the  larks. 
And  as  it  was,  there  came  over  me  at  times  a  feeling  of 
isolation  that  was  not  disagreeable,  and  yet  was  enough 
to  make  me  quicken  my  steps  eagerly  when  I  saw  some 
one  before  me  on  the  road.  This  fellow-voyager  proved 
to  be  no  less  a  person  than  the  parish  constable.  It  had 
occurred  to  me  that  in  a  district  which  was  so  little 
populous  and  so  well  wooded,  a  criminal  of  any  intelli- 
gence might  play  hide-and-seek  with  the  authorities  for 
months ;  and  this  idea  was  strengthened  by  the  aspect 
of  the  portly  constable  as  he  walked  by  my  side  with 
deliberate  dignity  and  turned-out  toes.  But  a  few  min- 
utes' converse  set  my  heart  at  rest.  These  rural  crimi- 
nals are  very  tame  birds,  it  appeared.  If  my  informant 
did  not  immediately  lay  his  hand  on  an  offender,  he  was 
content  to  wait;  some  evening  after  nightfall  there 
would  come  a  tap  at  his  door,  and  the  outlaw,  weary 
of  outlawry,  would  give  himself  quietly  up  to  undergo 
sentence,  and  resume  his  position  in  the  life  of  the 
country-side.  Married  men  caused  him  no  disquietude 
whatever;  he  had  them  fast  by  the  foot.  Sooner  or 
later  they  would  come  back  to  see  their  wives,  a  peep- 
ing neighbour  would  pass  the  word,  and  my  portly  con- 
stable would  walk  quietly  over  and  take  the  bird  sitting. 
And  if  there  were  a  few  who  had  no  particular  ties  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  preferred  to  shift  into  another 
county  when  they  fell  into  trouble,  their  departure 

114 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

moved  the  placid  constable  in  no  degree.  He  was  of 
Dogberry's  opinion ;  and  if  a  man  would  not  stand  in 
the  Prince's  name,  he  took  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him 
go,  and  thanked  God  he  was  rid  of  a  knave.  And 
surely  the  crime  and  the  law  were  in  admirable  keeping; 
rustic  constable  was  well  met  with  rustic  offender.  The 
officer  sitting  at  home  over  a  bit  of  fire  until  the  crimi- 
nal came  to  visit  him,  and  the  criminal  .coming— it  was 
a  fair  match.  One  felt  as  if  this  must  have  been  the 
order  in  that  delightful  seaboard  Bohemia  where  Florizel 
and  Perdita  courted  in  such  sweet  accents,  and  the  Puri- 
tan sang  psalms  to  hornpipes,  and  the  four-and-twenty 
shearers  danced  with  nosegays  in  their  bosoms,  and 
chanted  their  three  songs  apiece  at  the  old  shepherd's 
festival;  and  one  could  not  help  picturing  to  oneself 
what  havoc  among  good  people's  purses,  and  tribula- 
tion for  benignant  constables,  might  be  worked  here 
by  the  arrival,  over  stile  and  footpath,  of  a  new  Au- 
tolycus. 

Bidding  good-morning  to  my  fellow-traveller,  I  left  the 
road  and  struck  across  country.  It  was  rather  a  revela- 
tion to  pass  from  between  the  hedgerows  and  find  quite 
a  bustle  on  the  other  side,  a  great  coming  and  going  of 
school-children  upon  by-paths,  and,  in  every  second 
field,  lusty  horses  and  stout  country-folk  a-ploughing. 
The  way  I  followed  took  me  through  many  fields  thus 
occupied,  and  through  many  strips  of  plantation,  and 
then  over  a  little  space  of  smooth  turf,  very  pleasant  to 
the  feet,  set  with  tall  fir-trees  and  clamorous  with  rooks 
making  ready  for  the  winter,  and  so  back  again  into 
the  quiet  road.  I  was  now  not  far  from  the  end  of  my 
day's  journey.     A  few  hundred  yards   farther,   and, 

115 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

passing  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  I  began  to  go  down 
hill  through  a  pretty  extensive  tract  of  young  beeches'. 
I  was  soon  in  shadow  myself,  but  the  afternoon  sun 
still  coloured  the  upmost  boughs  of  the  wood,  and  made 
a  fire  over  my  head  in  the  autumnal  foliage.  A  little  faint 
vapour  lay  among  the  slim  tree-stems  in  the  bottom  of 
the  hollow;  and  from  farther  up  1  heard  from  time  to 
time  an  outburst  of  gross  laughter,  as  though  clowns 
were  making  merry  in  the  bush.  There  was  something 
about  the  atmosphere  that  brought  all  sights  and  sounds 
home  to  one  with  a  singular  purity,  so  that  I  felt  as  if 
my  senses  had  been  washed  with  water.  After  I  had 
crossed  the  little  zone  of  mist,  the  path  began  to  remount 
the  hill;  and  just  as  I,  mounting  along  with  it,  had  got 
back  again,  from  the  head  downwards,  into  the  thin 
golden  sunshine,  I  saw  in  front  of  me  a  donkey  tied  to 
a  tree.  Now,  I  have  a  certain  liking  for  donkeys,  prin- 
cipally, I  believe,  because  of  the  delightful  things  that 
Sterne  has  written  of  them.  But  this  was  not  after  tht 
pattern  of  the  ass  at  Lyons.  He  was  of  a  white  colour, 
that  seemed  to  fit  him  rather  for  rare  festal  occasions 
than  for  constant  drudgery.  Besides,  he  was  very 
small,  and  of  the  daintiest  proportions  you  can  imagine 
in  a  donkey.  And  so,  sure  enough,  you  had  only  to 
look  at  him  to  see  he  had  never  worked.  There  was 
something  too  roguish  and  wanton  in  his  face,  a  look 
too  like  that  of  a  schoolboy  or  a  street  Arab,  to  have 
survived  much  cudgelling.  It  was  plain  that  these  feet 
had  kicked  off  sportive  children  oftener  than  they  had 
plodded  with  a  freight  through  miry  lanes.  He  was 
altogether  a  fine-weather,  holiday  sort  of  donkey;  and 
though  he  was  just  then  somewhat  solemnised  and  rue- 

ii6 


AN   AUTUMN    EFFECT 

ful,  he  still  gave  proof  of  the  levity  of  his  disposition  by 
impudently  wagging  his  ears  at  me  as  I  drew  near.  I 
say  he  was  somewhat  solemnised  just  then ;  for,  with 
the  admirable  instinct  of  all  men  and  animals  under  re- 
straint, he  had  so  wound  and  wound  the  halter  about 
the  tree  that  he  could  go  neither  back  nor  forwards,  nor 
so  much  as  put  down  his  head  to  browse.  There  he 
stood,  poor  rogue,  part  puzzled,  part  angry,  part,  I  be- 
lieve, amused.  He  had  not  given  up  hope,  and  dully 
revolved  the  problem  in  his  head,  giving  ever  and  again 
another  jerk  at  the  few  inches  of  free  rope  that  still 
remained  unwound.  A  humorous  sort  of  sympathy  for 
the  creature  took  hold  upon  me.  I  went  up,  and,  not 
without  some  trouble  on  my  part,  and  much  distrust 
and  resistance  on  the  part  of  Neddy,  got  him  forced 
backwards  until  the  whole  length  of  the  halter  was  set 
loose,  and  he  was  once  more  as  free  a  donkey  as  I  dared 
to  make  him.  I  was  pleased  (as  people  are)  with  this 
friendly  action  to  a  fellow-creature  in  tribulation,  and 
glanced  back  over  my  shoulder  to  see  how  he  was  prof- 
iting by  his  freedom.  The  brute  was  looking  after  me ; 
and  no  sooner  did  he  catch  my  eye  than  he  put  up  his 
long  white  face  into  the  air,  pulled  an  impudent  mouth 
at  me,  and  began  to  bray  derisively.  If  ever  any  one 
person  made  a  grimace  at  another,  that  donkey  made  a 
grimace  at  me.  The  hardened  ingratitude  of  his  behav- 
iour, and  the  impertinence  that  inspired  his  whole  face 
as  he  curled  up  his  lip,  and  showed  his  teeth,  and  began 
to  bray,  so  tickled  me,  and  was  so  much  in  keeping 
with  what  I  had  imagined  to  myself  about  his  charac- 
ter, that  1  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  be  angry,  and 
burst  into  a  peal  of  hearty  laughter.     This  seemed  to 

117 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

Strike  the  ass  as  a  repartee,  so  he  brayed  at  me  again  by 
way  of  rejoinder;  and  we  went  on  for  a  while,  braying 
and  laughing,  until  I  began  to  grow  a-weary  of  it,  and, 
shouting  a  derisive  farewell,  turned  to  pursue  my  way. 
In  so  doing— it  was  like  going  suddenly  into  cold  water 
—I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  a  prim  little  old  maid. 
She  was  all  in  a  flutter,  the  poor  old  dear!  She  had 
concluded  beyond  question  that  this  must  be  a  lunatic 
who  stood  laughing  aloud  at  a  white  donkey  in  the 
placid  beech-woods.  I  was  sure,  by  her  face,  that  she 
had  already  recommended  her  spirit  most  religiously  to 
Heaven,  and  prepared  herself  for  the  worst.  And  so, 
to  reassure  her,  I  uncovered  and  besought  her,  after  a 
very  staid  fashion,  to  put  me  on  my  way  to  Great  Mis- 
senden.  Her  voice  trembled  a  little,  to  be  sure,  but  I 
think  her  mind  was  set  at  rest;  and  she  told  me,  very 
explicitly,  to  follow  the  path  until  1  came  to  the  end  of 
the  wood,  and  then  I  should  see  the  village  below  me 
in  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  And,  with  mutual  courte- 
sies, the  little  old  maid  and  I  went  on  our  respective 
ways. 

Nor  had  she  misled  me.  Great  Missenden  was  close 
at  hand,  as  she  had  said,  in  the  trough  of  a  gentle  valley, 
with  many  great  elms  about  it.  The  smoke  from  its 
chimneys  went  up  pleasantly  in  the  afternoon  sunshine. 
The  sleepy  hum  of  a  threshing-machine  filled  the  neigh- 
bouring fields  and  hung  about  the  quaint  street  corners. 
A  little  above,  the  church  sits  well  back  on  its  haunches 
against  the  hill-side— an  attitude  for  a  church,  you  know, 
that  makes  it  look  as  if  it  could  be  ever  so  much  higher 
if  it  liked ;  and  the  trees  grew  about  it  thickly,  so  as  to 
make  a  density  of  shade  in  the  churchyard.     A  very 

ii8 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

quiet  place  it  looks;  and  yet  I  saw  many  boards  and 
posters  about  threatening  dire  punishment  against 
those  who  broke  the  church  windows  or  defaced  the 
precinct,  and  offering  rewards  for  the  apprehension  of 
those  who  had  done  the  like  already.  It  was  fair-day 
in  Great  Missenden.  There  were  three  stalls  set  up, 
sub  jove,  for  the  sale  of  pastry  and  cheap  toys;  and  a 
great  number  of  holiday  children  thronged  about  the 
stalls,  and  noisily  invaded  every  corner  of  the  straggling 
village.  They  came  round  me  by  coveys,  blowing  simul- 
taneously upon  penny  trumpets  as  though  they  imagined 
I  should  fall  to  pieces  like  the  battlements  of  Jericho.  I 
noticed  one  among  them  who  could  make  a  wheel  of 
himself  like  a  London  boy,  and  seemingly  enjoyed  a 
grave  pre-eminence  upon  the  strength  of  the  accomplish- 
ment. By-and-by,  however,  the  trumpets  began  to 
weary  me,  and  I  went  indoors,  leaving  the  fair,  I  fancy, 
at  its  height. 

Night  had  fallen  before  I  ventured  forth  again.  It 
was  pitch-dark  in  the  village  street,  and  the  darkness 
seemed  only  the  greater  for  a  light  here  and  there  in  an 
uncurtained  window  or  from  an  open  door.  Into  one 
such  window  I  was  rude  enough  to  peep,  and  saw 
within  a  charming  genre  picture.  In  a  room,  all  white 
wainscot  and  crimson  wall-paper,  a  perfect  gem  of  col- 
our after  the  black,  empty  darkness  in  which  I  had  been 
groping,  a  pretty  girl  was  telling  a  story,  as  well  as  I 
could  make  out,  to  an  attentive  child  upon  her  knee, 
while  an  old  woman  sat  placidly  dozing  over  the  fire. 
You  may  be  sure  I  was  not  behindhand  with'  a  story  for 
myself— a  good  old  story  after  the  manner  of  G.  P.  R. 
James    and  the  village  melodramas,    with  a  wicked 

119 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

squire,  and  poachers,  and  an  attorney,  and  a  virtuous 
young  man  with  a  genius  for  mechanics,  who  should 
love,  and  protect,  and  ultimately  marry  the  girl  in  the 
crimson  room.  Baudelaire  has  a  few  dainty  sentences 
on  the  fancies  that  we  are  inspired  with  when  we  look 
through  a  window  into  other  people's  lives;  and  I  think 
Dickens  has  somewhere  enlarged  on  the  same  text. 
The  subject,  at  least,  is  one  that  I  am  seldom  weary  of 
entertaining.  I  remember,  night  after  night,  at  Brus- 
sels, watching  a  good  family  sup  together,  make  merry, 
and  retire  to  rest ;  and  night  after  night  I  waited  to  see 
the  candles  lit,  and  the  salad  made,  and  the  last  salu- 
tations dutifully  exchanged,  without  any  abatement  of 
interest.  Night  after  night  I  found  the  scene  rivet  my 
attention  and  keep  me  awake  in  bed  with  all  manner 
of  quaint  imaginations.  Much  of  the  pleasure  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  hinges  upon  this  Asmodean  interest; 
and  we  are  not  weary  of  lifting  other  people's  roofs,  and 
going  about  behind  the  scenes  of  life  with  the  Caliph 
and  the  serviceable  Giaffar.  It  is  a  salutary  exercise, 
besides ;  it  is  salutary  to  get  out  of  ourselves  and  see 
people  living  together  in  perfect  unconsciousness  of  our 
existence,  as  they  will  live  when  we  are  gone.  If  to- 
morrow the  blow  falls,  and  the  worst  of  our  ill  fears  is 
realised,  the  girl  will  none  the  less  tell  stories  to  the 
child  on  her  lap  in  the  cottage  at  Great  Missenden,  nor 
the  good  Belgians  light  their  candle,  and  mix  their  salad, 
and  go  orderly  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  was  sunny  overhead  and  damp 
underfoot,  with  a  thrill  in  the  air  like  a  reminiscence  of 
frost.  I  went  up  into  the  sloping  garden  behind  the  inn 
and  smoked  a  pipe  pleasantly  enough,  to  the  tune  of 


AN  AUTUMN   EFFECT 

my  landlady's  lamentations  over  sundry  cabbages  and 
cauliflowers  that  had  been  spoiled  by  caterpillars.  She 
had  been  so  much  pleased  in  the  summer-time,  she  said, 
to  see  the  garden  all  hovered  over  by  white  butterflies. 
And  now,  look  at  the  end  of  it!  She  could  nowise 
reconcile  this  with  her  moral  sense.  And,  indeed,  un- 
less these  butterflies  are  created  with  a  side-look  to  the 
composition  of  improving  apologues,  it  is  not  altogether 
easy,  even  for  people  who  have  read  Hegel  and  Dr. 
M'Cosh,  to  decide  intelligibly  upon  the  issue  raised. 
Then  I  fell  into  a  long  and  abstruse  calculation  with  my 
landlord;  having  for  object  to  compare  the  distance 
driven  by  him  during  eight  years'  service  on  the  box  of 
the  Wendover  coach  with  the  girth  of  the  round  world 
itself.  We  tackled  the  question  most  conscientiously, 
made  all  necessary  allowance  for  Sundays  and  leap- 
years,  and  were  just  coming  to  a  triumphant  conclusion 
of  our  labours  when  we  were  stayed  by  a  small  lacuna 
in  my  information.  I  did  not  know  the  circumference 
of  the  earth.  The  landlord  knew  it,  to  be  sure— plainly 
he  had  made  the  same  calculation  twice  and  once  be- 
fore, —but  he  wanted  confidence  in  his  own  figures,  and 
from  the  moment  I  showed  myself  so  poor  a  second 
seemed  to  lose  all  interest  in  the  result. 

Wendover  (which  was  my  next  stage)  lies  in  the 
same  valley  with  Great  Missenden,  but  at  the  foot  of  it, 
where  the  hills  trend  off  on  either  hand  like  a  coast-line, 
and  a  great  hemisphere  of  plain  lies,  like  a  sea,  before 
one.  I  went  up  a  chalky  road,  until  I  had  a  good  out- 
look over  the  place.  The  vale,  as  it  opened  out  into  the 
plain,  was  shallow,  and  a  little  bare,  perhaps,  but  full 
of  graceful  convolutions.     From  the  level  to  which  I 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

have  now  attained  the  fields  were  exposed  before  me 
like  a  map,  and  I  could  see  all  that  bustle  of  autumn 
field-work  which  had  been  hid  from  me  yesterday  be- 
hind the  hedgerows,  or  shown  to  me  only  for  a  moment 
as  I  followed  the  footpath.  Wendover  lay  well  down 
in  the  midst,  with  mountains  of  foliage  about  it.  The 
great  plain  stretched  away  to  the  northward,  variegated 
near  at  hand  with  the  quaint  pattern  of  the  fields,  but 
growing  ever  more  and  more  indistinct,  until  it  became 
a  mere  hurly-burly  of  trees  and  bright  crescents  of  river, 
and  snatches  of  slanting  road,  and  finally  melted  into  the 
ambiguous  cloud-land  over  the  horizon.  The  sky  was 
an  opal-grey,  touched  here  and  there  with  blue,  and 
with  certain  faint  russets  that  looked  as  if  they  were 
reflections  of  the  colour  of  the  autumnal  woods  below. 
I  could  hear  the  ploughmen  shouting  to  their  horses,  the 
uninterrupted  carol  of  larks  innumerable  overhead,  and, 
from  a  field  where  the  shepherd  was  marshalling  his 
flock,  a  sweet  tumultuous  tinkle  of  sheep-bells.  All  these 
noises  came  to  me  very  thin  and  distinct  in  the  clear  air. 
There  was  a  wonderful  sentiment  of  distance  and 
atmosphere  about  the  day  and  the  place. 

I  mounted  the  hill  yet  farther  by  a  rough  staircase  of 
chalky  footholds  cut  in  the  turf.  The  hills  about  Wen- 
dover and,  as  far  as  1  could  see,  all  the  hills  in  Bucking- 
hamshire, wear  a  sort  of  hood  of  beech  plantation ;  but 
in  this  particular  case  the  hood  had  been  suffered  to  ex- 
tend itself  into  something  more  like  a  cloak,  and  hung 
down  about  the  shoulders  of  the  hill  in  wide  folds,  in- 
stead of  lying  flatly  along  the  summit.  The  trees  grew 
so  close,  and  their  boughs  were  so  matted  together,  that 
the  whole  wood  looked  as  dense  as  a  bush  of  heather. 

122 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

The  prevailing  colour  was  a  dull,  smouldering  red, 
touched  here  and  there  with  vivid  yellow.  But  the 
autumn  had  scarce  advanced  beyond  the  outworks;  it 
was  still  almost  summer  in  the  heart  of  the  wood;  and 
as  soon  as  I  had  scrambled  through  the  hedge,  I  found 
myself  in  a  dim  green  forest  atmosphere  under  eaves  of 
virgin  foliage.  In  places  where  the  wood  had  itself  for  a 
background  and  the  trees  were  massed  together  thickly, 
the  colour  became  intensified  and  almost  gem-like:  a 
perfect  fire  of  green,  that  seemed  none  the  less  green  for 
a  few  specks  of  autumn  gold.  None  of  the  trees  were 
of  any  considerable  age  or  stature;  but  they  grew  well 
together,  I  have  said;  and  as  the  road  turned  and  wound 
among  them,  they  fell  into  pleasant  groupings  and  broke 
the  light  up  pleasantly.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a 
colonnade  of  slim,  straight  tree-stems  with  the  light 
running  down  them  as  down  the  shafts  of  pillars,  that 
looked  as  if  it  ought  to  lead  to  something,  and  led  only 
to  a  corner  of  sombre  and  intricate  jungle.  Sometimes 
a  spray  of  delicate  foliage  would  be  thrown  out  flat,  the 
light  lying  flatly  along  the  top  of  it,  so  that  against  a 
dark  background  it  seemed  almost  luminous.  There 
was  a  great  hush  over  the  thicket  (for,  indeed,  it  was 
more  of  a  thicket  than  a  wood);  and  the  vague 
rumours  that  went  among  the  tree-tops,  and  the  occa- 
sional rustling  of  big  birds  or  hares  among  the  under- 
growth, had  in  them  a  note  of  almost  treacherous 
stealthiness,  that  put  the  imagination  on  its  guard  and 
made  me  walk  warily  on  the  russet  carpeting  of  last 
year's  leaves.  The  spirit  of  the  place  seemed  to  be  all 
attention;  the  wood  listened  as  I  went,  and  held  its 
breath  to  number  my  footfalls.     One  could  not  help 

123 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

feeling  that  there  ought  to  be  some  reason  for  this  still- 
ness: whether,  as  the  bright  old  legend  goes,  Pan  lay 
somewhere  near  in  siesta,  or  whether,  perhaps,  the 
heaven  was  meditating  rain,  and  the  first  drops  would 
soon  come  pattering  through  the  leaves.  It  was  not 
unpleasant,  in  such  an  humour,  to  catch  sight,  ever  and 
anon,  of  large  spaces  of  the  open  plain.  This  happened 
only  where  the  path  lay  much  upon  the  slope,  and 
there  was  a  flaw  in  the  solid  leafy  thatch  of  the  wood 
at  some  distance  below  the  level  at  which  I  chanced  my- 
self to  be  walking;  then,  indeed,  little  scraps  of  fore- 
shortened distance,  miniature  fields,  and  Lilliputian 
houses  and  hedgerow  trees  would  appear  for  a  moment 
in  the  aperture,  and  grow  larger  and  smaller,  and  change 
and  melt  one  into  another,  as  I  continued  to  go  forward, 
and  so  shift  my  point  of  view. 

For  ten  minutes,  perhaps,  I  had  heard  from  some- 
where before  me  in  the  wood  a  strange,  continuous 
noise,  as  of  clucking,  cooing,  and  gobbling,  now  and 
again  interrupted  by  a  harsh  scream.  As  I  advanced 
towards  this  noise,  it  began  to  grow  lighter  about  me, 
and  I  caught  sight,  through  the  trees,  of  sundry  gables 
and  enclosure  walls,  and  something  like  the  tops  of  a 
rickyard.  And  sure  enough,  a  rickyard  it  proved  to  be, 
and  a  neat  little  farm-steading,  with  the  beech-woods 
growing  almost  to  the  door  of  it.  Just  before  me,  how- 
ever, as  I  came  up  the  path,  the  trees  drew  back  and  let 
in  a  wide  flood  of  daylight  on  to  a  circular  lawn.  It  was 
here  that  the  noises  had  their  origin.  More  than  a  score 
of  peacocks  (there  are  altogether  thirty  at  the  farm),  a 
proper  contingent  of  peahens,  and  a  great  multitude  that 
I  could  not  number  of  more  ordinary  barn-door  fowls, 

124 


AN  AUTUMN   EFFECT 

were  all  feeding  together  on  this  little  open  lawn  among 
the  beeches.  They  fed  in  a  dense  crowd,  which  swayed 
to  and  fro,  and  came  hither  and  thither  as  by  a  sort  of 
tide,  and  of  which  the  surface  was  agitated  like  the  sur- 
face of  a  sea  as  each  bird  guzzled  his  head  along  the 
ground  after  the  scattered  corn.  The  clucking,  cooing 
noise  that  had  led  me  thither  was  formed  by  the  blend- 
ing together  of  countless  expressions  of  individual  con- 
tentment into  one  collective  expression  of  contentment, 
or  general  grace  during  meat.  Every  now  and  again  a 
big  peacock  would  separate  himself  from  the  mob  and 
take  a  stately  turn  or  two  about  the  lawn,  or  perhaps 
mount  for  a  moment  upon  the  rail,  and  there  shrilly 
publish  to  the  world  his  satisfaction  with  himself  and 
what  he  had  to  eat.  It  happened,  for  my  sins,  that  none 
of  these  admirable  birds  had  anything  beyond  the  merest 
rudiment  of  a  tail.  Tails,  it  seemed,  were  out  of  season 
just  then.  But  they  had  their  necks  for  all  that;  and  by 
their  necks  alone  they  do  as  much  surpass  all  the  other 
birds  of  our  grey  climate  as  they  fall  in  quality  of  song 
below  the  blackbird  or  the  lark.  Surely  the  peacock, 
with  its  incomparable  parade  of  glorious  colour  and  the 
scrannel  voice  of  it  issuing  forth,  as  in  mockery,  from 
its  painted  throat,  must,  like  my  landlady's  butterflies 
at  Great  Missenden,  have  been  invented  by  some  skilful 
fabulist  for  the  consolation  and  support  of  homely  vir- 
tue: or  rather,  perhaps,  by  a  fabulist  not  quite  so  skilful, 
who  made  points  for  the  moment  without  having  a 
studious  enough  eye  to  the  complete  effect ;  for  1  thought 
these  melting  greens  and  blues  so  beautiful  that  after- 
noon, that  I  would  have  given  them  my  vote  just  then 
before  the  sweetest  pipe  in  all  the  spring  woods.     For 

125 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

indeed  there  is  no  piece  of  colour  of  the  same  extent  in 
nature,  that  will  so  flatter  and  satisfy  the  lust  of  a  man's 
eyes;  and  to  come  upon  so  many  of  them,  after  these 
acres  of  stone-coloured  heavens  and  russet  woods,  and 
grey-brown  ploughlands  and  white  roads,  was  like 
going  three  whole  days'  journey  to  the  southward,  or 
a  month  back  into  the  summer. 

1  was  sorry  to  leave  Peacock  Farm— for  so  the  place' 
is  called,  after  the  name  of  its  splendid  pensioners— and 
go  forwards  again  in  the  quiet  woods.  It  began  to  grow 
both  damp  and  dusk  under  the  beeches;  and  as  the  day 
declined  the  colour  faded  out  of  the  foliage ;  and  shadow, 
without  form  and  void,  took  the  place  of  all  the  fine 
tracery  of  leaves  and  delicate  gradations  of  living  green 
that  had  before  accompanied  my  walk.  I  had  been 
sorry  to  leave  Peacock  Farm,  but  I  was  not  sorry  to  find 
myself  once  more  in  the  open  road,  under  a  pale  and 
somewhat  troubled-looking  evening  sky,  and  put  my 
best  foot  foremost  for  the  inn  at  Wendover. 

Wendover,  in  itself,  is  a  straggling,  purposeless  sort 
of  place.  Everybody  seems  to  have  had  his  own  opin- 
ion as  to  how  the  street  should  go;  or  rather,  every  now 
and  then  a  man  seems  to  have  arisen  with  a  new  idea  on 
the  subject,  and  led  away  a  little  sect  of  neighbours  to 
join  in  his  heresy.  It  would  have  somewhat  the  look 
of  an  abortive  watering-place,  such  as  we  may  now  see 
them  here  and  there  along  the  coast,  but  for  the  age  of 
the  houses,  the  comely  quiet  design  of  some  of  them, 
and  the  look  of  long  habitation,  of  a  life  that  is  settled 
and  rooted,  and  makes  it  worth  while  to  train  flowers 
about  the  windows,  and  otherwise  shape  the  dwelling 
to  the  humour  of  the  inhabitant.     The  church,  which 

126 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

might  perhaps  have  served  as  rallying-point  for  these 
loose  houses,  and  pulled  the  township  into  something 
like  intelligible  unity,  stands  some  distance  off  among 
great  trees ;  but  the  inn  (to  take  the  public  buildings  in 
order  of  importance)  is  in  what  I  understand  to  be  the 
principal  street:  a  pleasant  old  house,  with  bay-win- 
dows, and  three  peaked  gables,  and  many  swallows' 
nests  plastered  about  the  eaves. 

The  interior  of  the  inn  was  answerable  to  the  outside : 
indeed,  I  never  saw  any  room  much  more  to  be  admired 
than  the  low  wainscoted  parlour  in  which  I  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  evening.  It  was  a  short  oblong  in 
shape,  save  that  the  fireplace  was  built  across  one  of  the 
angles  so  as  to  cut  it  partially  off,  and  the  opposite  angle 
was  similarly  truncated  by  a  corner  cupboard.  The 
wainscot  was  white,  and  there  was  a  Turkey  carpet  on 
the  floor,  so  old  that  it  might  have  been  imported  by 
Walter  Shandy  before  he  retired,  worn  almost  through 
in  some  places,  but  in  others  making  a  good  show  of 
blues  and  oranges,  none  the  less  harmonious  for  being 
somewhat  faded.  The  corner  cupboard  was  agreeable 
in  design;  and  there  were  just  the  right  things  upon 
the  shelves— decanters  and  tumblers,  and  blue  plates, 
and  one  red  rose  in  a  glass  of  water.  The  furniture  was 
old-fashioned  and  stiff.  Everything  was  in  keeping, 
down  to  the  ponderous  leaden  inkstand  on  the  round 
table.  And  you  may  fancy  how  pleasant  it  looked,  all 
flushed  and  flickered  over  by  the  light  of  a  brisk  com- 
panionable fire,  and  seen,  in  a  strange,  tilted  sort  of 
perspective,  in  the  three  compartments  of  the  old  mirror 
above  the  chimney.  As  I  sat  reading  in  the  great  arm- 
chair, I  kept  looking  round  with  the  tail  of  my  eye  at  the 

127 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

quaint,  bright  picture  that  was  about  me,  and  could  not 
help  some  pleasure  and  a  certain  childish  pride  in  form- 
ing part  of  it.  The  book  I  read  was  about  Italy  in  the 
early  Renaissance,  the  pageantries  and  the  light  loves  of 
princes,  the  passion  of  men  for  learning,  and  poetry, 
and  art;  but  it  was  written,  by  good  luck,  after  a  solid, 
prosaic  fashion,  that  suited  the  room  infinitely  more 
nearly  than  the  matter;  and  the  result  was  that  I  thought 
less,  perhaps,  of  Lippo  Lippi,  or  Lorenzo,  or  Politian, 
than  of  the  good  Englishman  who  had  written  in  that 
volume  what  he  knew  of  them,  and  taken  so  much 
pleasure  in  his  solemn  polysyllables. 

I  was  not  left  without  society.  My  landlord  had  a 
very  pretty  little  daughter,  whom  we  shall  call  Lizzie. 
If  I  had  made  any  notes  at  the  time,  I  might  be  able  to 
tell  you  something  definite  of  her  appearance.  But 
faces  have  a  trick  of  growing  more  and  more  spiritual- 
ised and  abstract  in  the  memory,  until  nothing  remains 
of  them  but  a  look,  a  haunting  expression;  just  that 
secret  quality  in  a  face  that  is  apt  to  slip  out  somehow 
under  the  cunningest  painter's  touch,  and  leave  the  por- 
trait dead  for  the  lack  of  it.  And  if  it  is  hard  to  catch 
with  the  finest  of  camel's-hair  pencils,  you  may  think 
how  hopeless  it  must  be  to  pursue  after  it  with  clumsy 
words.  If  I  say,  for  instance,  that  this  look,  which  I 
remember  as  Lizzie,  was  something  wistful  that  seemed 
partly  to  come  of  slyness  and  in  part  of  simplicity,  and 
that  I  am  inclined  to  imagine  it  had  something  to  do 
with  the  daintiest  suspicion  of  a  cast  in  one  of  her  large 
eyes,  I  shall  have  said  all  that  I  can,  and  the  reader  will 
not  be  much  advanced  towards  comprehension.  I  had 
struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  this  little  damsel  in  the 

128 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

morning,  and  professed  much  interest  in  her  dolls,  and 
an  impatient  desire  to  see  the  large  one  which  was  kept 
locked  away  for  great  occasions.  And  so  I  had  not  been 
very  long  in  the  parlour  before  the  door  opened,  and  in 
came  Miss  Lizzie  with  two  dolls  tucked  clumsily  under 
her  arm.  She  was  followed  by  her  brother  John,  a  year 
or  so  younger  than  herself,  not  simply  to  play  propriety 
at  our  interview,  but  to  show  his  own  two  whips  in 
emulation  of  his  sister's  dolls.  I  did  my  best  to  make 
myself  agreeable  to  my  visitors,  showing  much  admira- 
tion for  the  dolls  and  dolls'  dresses,  and,  with  a  very 
serious  demeanour,  asking  many  questions  about  their 
age  and  character.  I  do  not  think  that  Lizzie  distrusted 
my  sincerity,  but  it  was  evident  that  she  was  both  bewil- 
dered and  a  little  contemptuous.  Although  she  was  ready 
herself  to  treat  her  dolls  as  if  they  were  alive,  she  seemed 
to  think  rather  poorly  of  any  grown  person  who  could 
fall  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  the  fiction.  Sometimes  she 
would  look  at  me  with  gravity  and  a  sort  of  disquietude, 
as  though  she  really  feared  I  must  be  out  of  my  wits. 
Sometimes,  as  when  I  inquired  too  particularly  into  the 
question  of  their  names,  she  laughed  at  me  so  long  and 
heartily  that  1  began  to  feel  almost  embarrassed.  But 
when,  in  an  evil  moment,  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
kiss  one  of  them,  she  could  keep  herself  no  longer  to 
herself.  Clambering  down  from  the  chair  on  which  she 
sat  perched  to  show  me,  Cornelia-like,  her  jewels,  she 
ran  straight  out  of  the  room  and  into  the  bar— it  was 
just  across  the  passage,— and  I  could  hear  her  telling  her 
mother  in  loud  tones,  but  apparently  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  merriment,  that  the  gentleman  in  the  parlour 
wanted  to  kiss  Dolly,     I  fancy  she  was  determined  to 

129 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

save  me  from  this  humiliating  action,  even  in  spite  of 
myself,  for  she  never  gave  me  the  desired  permission. 
She  reminded  me  of  an  old  dog  I  once  knew,  who 
would  never  suffer  the  master  of  the  house  to  dance, 
out  of  an  exaggerated  sense  of  the  dignity  of  that  mas- 
ter's place  and  carriage. 

After  the  young  people  were  gone  there  was  but  one 
more  incident  ere  I  went  to  bed.  I  heard  a  party  of 
children  go  up  and  down  the  dark  street  for  a  while, 
singing  together  sweetly.  And  the  mystery  of  this  little 
incident  was  so  pleasant  to  me  that  I  purposely  refrained 
from  asking  who  they  were,  and  wherefore  they  went 
singing  at  so  late  an  hour.  One  can  rarely  be  in  a 
pleasant  place  without  meeting  with  some  pleasant  ac- 
cident. I  have  a  conviction  that  these  children  would 
not  have  gone  singing  before  the  inn  unless  the  inn- 
parlour  had  been  the  delightful  place  it  was.  At  least, 
if  I  had  been  in  the  customary  public  room  of  the 
modern  hotel,  with  all  its  disproportions  and  discom- 
forts, my  ears  would  have  been  dull,  and  there  would 
have  been  some  ugly  temper  or  other  uppermost  in  my 
spirit,  and  so  they  would  have  wasted  their  songs  upon 
an  unworthy  hearer. 

Next  morning  I  went  along  to  visit  the  church.  It  is 
a  long-backed  red-and-white  building,  very  much 
restored,  and  stands  in  a  pleasant  graveyard  among 
those  great  trees  of  which  I  have  spoken  already.  The 
sky  was  drowned  in  a  mist.  Now  and  again  pulses  of 
cold  wind  went  about  the  enclosure,  and  set  the  branches 
busy  overhead,  and  the  dead  leaves  scurrying  into  the 
angles  of  the  church  buttresses.  Now  and  again,  also, 
I  could  hear  the  dull  sudden  fall  of  a  chestnut  among 

130 


AN   AUTUMN   EFFECT 

the  grass— the  dog  would  bark  before  the  rectory  door 
—or  there  would  come  a  clinking  of  pails  from  the 
stable-yard  behind.  But  in  spite  of  these  occasional 
interruptions— in  spite,  also,  of  the  continuous  autumn 
twittering  that  filled  the  trees— the  chief  impression 
somehow  was  one  as  of  utter  silence,  insomuch  that  the 
little  greenish  bell  that  peeped  out  of  a  window  in  the 
tower  disquieted  me  with  a  sense  of  some  possible  and 
more  inharmonious  disturbance.  The  grass  was  wet, 
as  if  with  a  hoar-frost  that  had  just  been  melted.  I  do 
not  know  that  ever  I  saw  a  morning  more  autumnal.  As 
I  went  to  and  fro  among  the  graves,  I  saw  some  flowers 
set  reverently  before  a  recently  erected  tomb,  and  draw- 
ing near  was  almost  startled  to  find  they  lay  on  the  grave 
of  a  man  seventy-two  years  old  when  he  died.  We  are 
accustomed  to  strew  flowers  only  over  the  young, 
where  love  has  been  cut  short  untimely,  and  great 
possibilities  have  been  restrained  by  death.  We  strew 
them  there  in  token  that  these  possibilities,  in  some 
deeper  sense,  shall  yet  be  realised,  and  the  touch  of  our 
dead  loves  remain  with  us  and  guide  us  to  the  end. 
And  yet  there  was  more  significance,  perhaps,  and  per- 
haps a  greater  consolation,  in  this  little  nosegay  on  the 
grave  of  one  who  had  died  old.  We  are  apt  to  make  so 
much  of  the  tragedy  of  death,  and  think  so  little  of  the 
enduring  tragedy  of  some  men's  lives,  that  we  see  more 
to  lament  for  in  a  life  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  usefulness 
and  love,  than  in  one  that  miserably  survives  all  love  and 
usefulness,  and  goes  about  the  world  the  phantom  of 
itself,  without  hope,  or  joy,  or  any  consolation.  These 
flowers  seemed  not  so  much  the  token  of  love  that  sur- 
vived death,  as  of  something  yet  more  beautiful— of  love 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

that  had  lived  a  man's  life  out  to  an  end  with  him,  and 
been  faithful  and  companionable,  and  not  weary  of  lov- 
ing, throughout  all  these  years. 

The  morning  cleared  a  little,  and  the  sky  was  once 
more  the  old  stone-coloured  vault  over  the  sallow 
meadows  and  the  russet  woods,  as  I  set  forth  on  a 
dog-cart  from  Wendover  to  Tring.  The  road  lay  for  a 
good  distance  along  the  side  of  the  hills,  with  the  great 
plain  below  on  one  hand,  and  the  beech-woods  above 
on  the  other.  The  fields  were  busy  with  people  plough- 
ing and  sowing;  every  here  and  there  a  jug  of  ale  stood 
in  the  angle  of  the  hedge,  and  I  could  see  many  a  team 
wait  smoking  in  the  furrow  as  ploughman  or  sower 
stepped  aside  for  a  moment  to  take  a  draught.  Over 
all  the  brown  ploughlands,  and  under  all  the  leafless 
hedgerows,  there  was  a  stout  piece  of  labour  abroad, 
and,  as  it  were,  a  spirit  of  picnic.  The  horses  smoked 
and  the  men  laboured  and  shouted  and  drank  in  the 
sharp  autumn  morning;  so  that  one  had  a  strong  effect 
of  large,  open-air  existence.  The  fellow  who  drove  me 
was  something  of  a  humourist;  and  his  conversation 
was  all  in  praise  of  an  agricultural  labourer's  way  of  life. 
It  was  he  who  called  my  attention  to  these  jugs  of  ale 
by  the  hedgerow ;  he  could  not  sufficiently  express  the 
liberality  of  these  men's  wages ;  he  told  me  how  sharp 
an  appetite  was  given  by  breaking  up  the  earth  in  the 
morning  air,  whether  with  plough  or  spade,  and  cordially 
admired  this  provision  of  nature.  He  sang  Ofortunatos 
agricolas!  indeed,  in  every  possible  key,  and  with  many 
cunning  inflections,  till  I  began  to  wonder  what  was  the 
use  of  such  people  as  Mr.  Arch,  and  to  sing  the  same 
air  myself  in  a  more  diffident  manner. 

»32 


AN  AUTUMN   EFFECT 

Tring  was  reached,  and  then  Tring  railway-station; 
for  the  two  are  not  very  near,  the  good  people  of  Tring 
having  held  the  railway,  of  old  days,  in  extreme  appre- 
hension, lest  some  day  it  should  break  loose  in  the  town 
and  work  mischief.  I  had  a  last  walk,  among  russet 
beeches  as  usual,  and  the  air  filled,  as  usual,  with  the 
carolling  of  larks ;  I  heard  shots  fired  in  the  distance,  and 
saw,  as  a  new  sign  of  the  fulfilled  autumn,  two  horse- 
men exercising  a  pack  of  foxhounds.  And  then  the 
train  came  and  carried  me  back  to  London. 


US 


VII 

A   winter's   walk   in   CARRICK   AND   GALLOWAY 

(y4  Fragment:  i8y6) 

At  the  famous  bridge  of  Doon,  Kyle,  the  central  dis- 
trict of  the  shire  of  Ayr,  marches  with  Carrick,  the  most 
southerly.  On  the  Carrick  side  of  the  river  rises  a  hill 
of  somewhat  gentle  conformation,  cleft  with  shallow 
dells,  and  sown  here  and  there  with  farms  and  tufts  of 
wood.  Inland,  it  loses  itself,  joining,  I  suppose,  the 
great  herd  of  similar  hills  that  occupies  the  centre  of  the 
Lowlands.  Towards  the  sea,  it  swells  out  the  coast- 
line into  a  protuberance,  like  a  bay-window  in  a  plan, 
and  is  fortified  against  the  surf  behind  bold  crags. 
This  hill  is  known  as  the  Brown  Hill  of  Carrick,  or,  more 
shortly,  Brown  Carrick. 

It  had  snowed  overnight.  The  fields  were  all  sheeted 
up;  they  were  tucked  in  among  the  snow,  and  their 
shape  was  modelled  through  the  pliant  counterpane,  like 
children  tucked  in  by  a  fond  mother.  The  wind  had 
made  ripples  and  folds  upon  the  surface,  like  what  the 
sea,  in  quiet  weather,  leaves  upon  the  sand.  There  was 
a  frosty  stifle  in  the  air.  An  effusion  of  coppery  light 
on  the  summit  of  Brown  Carrick  showed  where  the  sun 
was  trying  to  look  through ;  but  along  the  horizon  clouds 

134 


A   WINTER'S  WALK    IN    CARRICK   AND   GALLOWAY 

of  cold  fog  had  settled  down,  so  that  there  was  no  dis- 
tinction of  sky  and  sea.  Over  the  white  shoulders  of 
the  headlands,  or  in  the  opening  of  bays,  there  was 
nothing  but  a  great  vacancy  and  blackness ;  and  the  road 
as  it  drew  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff  seemed  to  skirt  the 
shores  of  creation  and  void  space. 

The  snow  crunched  underfoot,  and  at  farms  all  the 
dogs  broke  out  barking  as  they  smelt  a  passer-by  upon 
the  road.  I  met  a  fine  old  fellow,  who  might  have  sat 
as  the  father  in  ''The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night,"  and 
who  swore  most  heathenishly  at  a  cow  he  was  driving. 
And  a  little  after  I  scraped  acquaintance  with  a  poor  body 
tramping  out  to  gather  cockles.  His  face  was  wrinkled 
by  exposure;  it  was  broken  up  into  flakes  and  channels, 
like  mud  beginning  to  dry,  and  weathered  in  two 
colours,  an  incongruous  pink  and  grey.  He  had  a  faint 
air  of  being  surprised— which,  God  knows,  he  might 
well  be— that  life  had  gone  so  ill  with  him.  The  shape 
of  his  trousers  was  in  itself  a  jest,  so  strangely  were 
they  bagged  and  ravelled  about  his  knees ;  and  his  coat 
was  all  bedaubed  with  clay  as  though  he  had  lain  in  a 
rain-dub  during  the  New  Year's  festivity.  I  will  own 
I  was  not  sorry  to  think  he  had  had  a  merry  New  Year, 
and  been  young  again  for  an  evening;  but  I  was  sorry 
to  see  the  mark  still  there.  One  could  not  expect  such 
an  old  gentleman  to  be  much  of  a  dandy,  or  a  great 
student  of  respectability  in  dress ;  but  there  might  have 
been  a  wife  at  home,  who  had  brushed  out  similar  stains 
after  fifty  New  Years,  now  become  old,  or  a  round- 
armed  daughter,  who  would  wish  to  have  him  neat, 
were  it  only  out  of  self-respect  and  for  the  ploughman 
sweetheart  when  he  looks  round  at  night.     Plainly, 

^35 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

there  was  nothing  of  this  in  his  life,  and  years  and 
loneliness  hung  heavily  on  his  old  arms.  He  was 
seventy-six,  he  told  me;  and  nobody  would  give  a 
day's  work  to  a  man  that  age:  they  would  think  he 
could  n't  do  it.  "  And,  'deed,"  he  went  on,  with  a  sad 
little  chuckle,  "'deed,  I  doubt  if  I  could."  He  said 
good-bye  to  me  at  a  footpath,  and  crippled  wearily  off 
to  his  work.  It  will  make  your  heart  ache  if  you  think 
of  his  old  fingers  groping  in  the  snow. 

He  told  me  I  was  to  turn  down  beside  the  school- 
house  for  Dunure.  And  so,  when  I  found  a  lone  house 
among  the  snow,  and  heard  a  babble  of  childish  voices 
from  within,  I  struck  off  into  a  steep  road  leading  down- 
wards to  the  sea.  Dunure  lies  close  under  the  steep 
hill:  a  haven  among  the  rocks,  a  breakwater  in  consum- 
mate disrepair,  much  apparatus  for  drying  nets,  and  a 
score  or  so  of  fishers'  houses.  Hard  by,  a  few  shards 
of  ruined  castle  overhang  the  sea,  a  few  vaults,  and  one 
tall  gable  honeycombed  with  windows.  The  snow  lay 
on  the  beach  to  the  tide-mark.  It  was  daubed  on  to  the 
sills  of  the  ruin ;  it  roosted  in  the  crannies  of  the  rock 
like  white  sea-birds ;  even  on  outlying  reefs  there  would 
be  a  little  cock  of  snow,  like  a  toy  lighthouse.  Every- 
thing was  grey  and  white  in  a  cold  and  dolorous  sort 
of  shepherd's  plaid.  In  the  profound  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  noise  of  oars  at  sea,  a  horn  was  sounded 
twice;  and  I  saw  the  postman,  girt  with  two  bags, 
pause  a  moment  at  the  end  of  the  clachan  for  letters. 
It  is,  perhaps,  characteristic  of  Dunure  that  none  were 
brought  him. 

The  people  at  the  public-house  did  not  seem  well 
pleased  to  see  me,  and  though  I  would  fain  have  stayed 

n6 


A   WINTER'S   WALK    IN   CARRICK   AND   GALLOWAY 

by  the  kitchen  fire,  sent  me  "  ben  the  hoose  "  into  the 
guest-room.  This  guest-room  at  Dunure  was  painted 
in  quite  aesthetic  fashion.  There  are  rooms  in  the  same 
taste  not  a  hundred  miles  from  London,  where  persons 
of  an  extreme  sensibility  meet  together  without  em- 
barrassment. It  was  all  in  a  fine  dull  bottle-green  and 
black;  a  grave  harmonious  piece  of  colouring,  with 
nothing,  so  far  as  coarser  folk  can  judge,  to  hurt  the 
better  feelings  of  the  most  exquisite  purist.  A  cherry- 
red  half  window-blind  kept  up  an  imaginary  warmth  in 
the  cold  room,  and  threw  quite  a  glow  on  the  floor. 
Twelve  cockle-shells  and  a  halfpenny  china  figure  were 
ranged  solemnly  along  the  mantel-shelf.  Even  the 
spittoon  was  an  original  note,  and  instead  of  sawdust 
contained  sea-shells.  And  as  for  the  hearth-rug,  it 
would  merit  an  article  to  itself,  and  a  coloured  diagram 
to  help  the  text.  It  was  patchwork,  but  the  patchwork 
of  the  poor:  no  glowing  shreds  of  old  brocade  and 
Chinese  silk,  shaken  together  in  the  kaleidoscope  of 
some  tasteful  housewife's  fancy ;  but  a  work  of  art  in 
its  own  way,  and  plainly  a  labour  of  love.  The  patches 
came  exclusively  from  people's  raiment.  There  was  no 
colour  more  brilliant  than  a  heather  mixture;  "My 
Johnnie's  grey  breeks,"  well  polished  over  the  oar  on 
the  boat's  thwart,  entered  largely  into  its  composition. 
And  the  spoils  of  an  old  black  cloth  coat,  that  had  been 
many  a  Sunday  to  church,  added  something  (save  the 
mark!)  of  preciousness  to  the  material. 

While  I  was  at  luncheon  four  carters  came  in— long- 
limbed,  muscular  Ayrshire  Scots,  with  lean,  intelligent 
faces.  Four  quarts  of  stout  were  ordered ;  they  kept 
filling  the  tumbler  with  the  other  hand  as  they  drank ; 

137 


NOTES  AND    ESSAYS 

and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  me  to  write  these  words 
the  four  quarts  were  finished— another  round  was  pro- 
posed, discussed,  and  negatived— and  they  were  creak- 
ing out  of  the  village  with  their  carts. 

The  ruins  drew  you  towards  them.  You  never  saw 
any  place  more  desolate  from  a  distance,  nor  one  that 
less  belied  its  promise  near  at  hand.  Some  crows  and 
gulls  flew  away  croaking  as  1  scrambled  in.  The  snow 
had  drifted  into  the  vaults.  The  clachan  dabbled  with 
snow,  the  white  hills,  the  black  sky,  the  sea  marked  in 
the  coves  with  faint  circular  wrinkles,  the  whole  world, 
as  it  looked  from  a  loophole  in  Dunure,  was  cold, 
wretched,  and  out-at-elbows.  If  you  had  been  a  wicked 
baron  and  compelled  to  stay  there  all  the  afternoon,  you 
would  have  had  a  rare  fit  of  remorse.  How  you  would 
have  heaped  up  the  fire  and  gnawed  your  fingers !  I 
think  it  would  have  come  to  homicide  before  the  even- 
ing—if it  were  only  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  something 
red!  And  the  masters  of  Dunure,  it  is  to  be  noticed, 
were  remarkable  of  old  for  inhumanity.  One  of  these 
vaults  where  the  snow  had  drifted  was  that  "black 
voute  "  where  "  Mr.  Alane  Stewart,  Commendatour  of 
Crossraguel,"  endured  his  fiery  trials.  On  the  ist 
and  7th  of  September,  1570  (ill  dates  for  Mr.  Alan!), 
Gilbert,  Earl  of  Cassilis,  his  chaplain,  his  baker,  his 
cook,  his  pantryman,  and  another  servant,  bound  the 
poor  Commendator  *'betwix  an  iron  chimlay  and  a 
fire,"  and  there  cruelly  roasted  him  until  he  signed 
away  his  abbacy.  It  is  one  of  the  ugliest  stories  of  an 
ugly  period,  but  not,  somehow,  without  such  a  flavour 
of  the  ridiculous  as  makes  it  hard  to  sympathise  quite 
seriously  with  the  victim.     And  it  is  consoling  to  re- 

138 


A  WINTER'S  WALK   IN   CARRICK  AND    GALLOWAY 

member  that  he  got  away  at  last,  and  kept  his  abbacy, 
and,  over  and  above,  had  a  pension  from  the  Earl  until 
he  died. 

Some  way  beyond  Dunure  a  wide  bay,  of  somewhat 
less  unkindly  aspect,  opened  out.  Colzean  plantations 
lay  all  along  the  steep  shore,  and  there  was  a  wooded 
hill  towards  the  centre,  where  the  trees  made  a  sort  of 
shadowy  etching  over  the  snow.  The  road  went  down 
and  up,  and  past  a  blacksmith's  cottage  that  made  fine 
music  in  the  valley.  Three  compatriots  of  Burns  drove 
up  to  me  in  a  cart.  They  were  all  drunk,  and  asked 
me  jeeringly  if  this  was  the  way  to  Dunure.  1  told 
them  it  was;  and  my  answer  was  received  with  un- 
feigned merriment.  One  gentleman  was  so  much 
tickled  he  nearly  fell  out  of  the  cart;  indeed,  he  was 
only  saved  by  a  companion,  who  either  had  not  so  fine 
a  sense  of  humour  or  had  drunken  less. 

"The  toune  of  Mayboll,"  says  the  inimitable  Aber- 
crummie,^ "  stands  upon  an  ascending  ground  from  east 
to  west,  and  lyes  open  to  the  south.  It  hath  one  prin- 
cipall  street,  with  houses  upon  both  sides,  built  of  free- 
stone; and  it  is  beautifyed  with  the  situation  of  two 
castles,  one  at  each  end  of  this  street.  That  on  the  east 
belongs  to  the  Erie  of  Cassilis.  On  the  west  end  is  a 
castle,  which  belonged  sometime  to  the  laird  of  Blair- 
quan,  which  is  now  the  tolbuith,  and  is  adorned  with  a 
pyremide  [conical  roof],  and  a  row  of  ballesters  round 
it  raised  from  the  top  of  the  staircase,  into  which  they 
have  mounted  a  fyne  clock.  There  be  four  lanes  which 
pass  from  the  principall  street;  one  is  called  the  Black 

1  William  Abercrombie.  See  Fasti  Ecclesice  Scoticance,  under  "  May- 
bole  "  (Part  iii.). 

>39 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

Vennel,  which  is  steep,  declining  to  the  south-west,  and 
leads  to  a  lower  street,  which  is  far  larger  than  the  high 
chiefe  street,  and  it  runs  from  the  Kirkland  to  the  Well 
Trees,  in  which  there  have  been  many  pretty  buildings, 
belonging  to  the  severall  gentry  of  the  countrey,  who 
were  wont  to  resort  thither  in  winter,  and  divert  them- 
selves in  converse  together  at  their  owne  houses.  It 
was  once  the  principall  street  of  the  town;  but  many 
of  these  houses  of  the  gentry  having  been  decayed  and 
ruined,  it  has  lost  much  of  its  ancient  beautie.  Just 
opposite  to  this  vennel,  there  is  another  that  leads 
north-west,  from  the  chiefe  street  to  the  green,  which 
is  a  pleasant  plott  of  ground,  enclosed  round  with  an 
earthen  wall,  wherein  they  were  wont  to  play  football, 
but  now  at  the  GowfT  and  byasse-bowls.  The  houses 
of  this  towne,  on  both  sides  of  the  street,  have  their 
several  gardens  belonging  to  them;  and  in  the  lower 
street  there  be  some  pretty  orchards,  that  yield  store  of 
good  fruit."  As  Patterson  says,  this  description  is  near 
enough  even  to-day,  and  is  mighty  nicely  written  to 
boot.  I  am  bound  to  add,  of  my  own  experience, 
that  Maybole  is  tumbledown  and  dreary.  Prosperous 
enough  in  reality,  it  has  an  air  of  decay;  and  though 
the  population  has  increased,  a  roofless  house  every  here 
and  there  seems  to  protest  the  contrary.  The  women 
are  more  than  well-favoured,  and  the  men  fine  tall  fel- 
lows; but  they  look  slipshod  and  dissipated.  As  they 
slouched  at  street  corners,  or  stood  about  gossiping  in 
the  snow,  it  seemed  they  would  have  been  more  at 
home  in  the  slums  of  a  large  city  than  here  in  a  coun- 
try place  betwixt  a  village  and  a  town.  I  heard  a  great 
deal  about  drinking,  and  a  great  deal  about  religious  re^ 

140 


A   WINTER'S   WALK   IN   CARRICK  AND   GALLOWAY 

vivals:  two  things  in  which  the  Scottish  character  is 
emphatic  and  most  unlovely.  In  particular,  I  heard  of 
clergymen  who  were  employing  their  time  in  explain- 
ing to  a  delighted  audience  the  physics  of  the  Second 
Coming.  It  is  not  very  likely  any  of  us  will  be  asked 
to  help.  If  we  were,  it  is  likely  we  should  receive 
instructions  for  the  occasion,  and  that  on  more  reliable 
authority.  And  so  I  can  only  figure  to  myself  a  con- 
gregation truly  curious  in  such  flights  of  theological 
fancy,  as  one  of  veteran  and  accomplished  saints,  who 
have  fought  the  good  fight  to  an  end  and  outlived  all 
worldly  passion,  and  are  to  be  regarded  rather  as  a  part 
of  the  Church  Triumphant  than  the  poor,  imperfect 
company  on  earth.  And  yet  I  saw  some  young  fellows 
about  the  smoking-room  who  seemed,  in  the  eyes  of 
one  who  cannot  count  himself  strait-laced,  in  need  of 
some  more  practical  sort  of  teaching.  They  seemed 
only  eager  to  get  drunk,  and  to  do  so  speedily.  It  was 
not  much  more  than  a  week  after  the  New  Year;  and 
to  hear  them  return  on  their  past  bouts  with  a  gusto 
unspeakable  was  not  altogether  pleasing.  Here  is  one 
snatch  of  talk,  for  the  accuracy  of  which  I  can  vouch— 

"  Ye  had  a  spree  here  last  Tuesday?  " 

"We  had  that!" 

"  I  wasna  able  to  be  oot  o'  my  bed.  Man,  I  was 
awful  bad  on  Wednesday." 

"  Ay,  ye  were  gey  bad." 

And  you  should  have  seen  the  bright  eyes,  and  heard 
the  sensual  accents!  They  recalled  their  doings  with 
devout  gusto  and  a  sort  of  rational  pride.  Schoolboys, 
after  their  first  drunkenness,  are  not  more  boastful;  a 
cock  does  not  plume  himself  with  a  more  unmingled 

14( 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

satisfaction  as  he  paces  forth  among  his  harem ;  and  yet 
these  were  grown  men,  and  by  no  means  short  of  wit. 
It  was  hard  to  suppose  they  were  very  eager  about  the 
Second  Coming:  it  seemed  as  if  some  elementary 
notions  of  temperance  for  the  men  and  seemliness  for 
the  women  would  have  gone  nearer  the  mark.  And 
yet,  as  it  seemed  to  me  typical  of  much  that  is  evil  in 
Scotland,  Maybole  is  also  typical  of  much  that  is  best. 
Some  of  the  factories,  which  have  taken  the  place  of 
weaving  in  the  town's  economy,  were  originally  founded 
and  are  still  possessed  by  self-made  men  of  the  sterling, 
stout  old  breed— fellows  who  made  some  little  bit  of  an 
invention,  borrowed  some  little  pocketful  of  capital,  and 
then,  step  by  step,  in  courage,  thrift,  and  industry, 
fought  their  way  upwards  to  an  assured  position. 

Abercrummie  has  told  you  enough  of  the  Tolbooth ; 
but,  as  a  bit  of  spelling,  this  inscription  on  the  Tolbooth 
bell  seems  too  delicious  to  withhold:  "This  bell  is 
founded  at  Maiboll  Bi  Danel  Geli,  a  Frenchman,  the  6th 
November,  1696,  Bi  appointment  of  the  heritors  of  the 
parish  of  Maiyboll."  The  Castle  deserves  more  notice. 
It  is  a  large  and  shapely  tower,  plain  from  the  ground 
upwards,  but  with  a  zone  of  ornamentation  running 
about  the  top.  In  a  general  way  this  adornment  is 
perched  on  the  very  summit  of  the  chimney-stacks ;  but 
there  is  one  corner  more  elaborate  than  the  rest.  A  very 
heavy  string-course  runs  round  the  upper  story,  and  just 
above  this,  facing  up  the  street,  the  tower  carries  a 
small  oriel  window,  fluted  and  corbelled  and  carved 
about  with  stone  heads.  It  is  so  ornate  it  has  some- 
what the  air  of  a  shrine.  And  it  was,  indeed,  the  cas- 
ket of  a  very  precious  jewel,  for  in  the  room  to  which 

142 


A   WINTER'S   WALK   IN   CARRICK  AND   GALLOWAY 

it  gives  light  lay,  for  long  years,  the  heroine  of  the 
sweet  old  ballad  of  "Johnnie  Faa"— she  who,  at  the 
call  of  the  gipsies'  songs,  "  came  tripping  down  the 
stair,  and  all  her  maids  before  her."  Some  people  say 
the  ballad  has  no  basis  in  fact,  and  have  written,  I  be- 
lieve, unanswerable  papers  to  the  proof.  But  in  the 
face  of  all  that,  the  very  look  of  that  high  oriel  window 
convinces  the  imagination,  and  we  enter  into  all  the 
sorrows  of  the  imprisoned  dame.  We  conceive  the 
burthen  of  the  long,  lack-lustre  days,  when  she  leaned 
her  sick  head  against  the  mullions,  and  saw  the  burghers 
loafing  in  Maybole  High  Street,  and  the  children  at  play, 
and  ruffling  gallants  riding  by  from  hunt  or  foray.  We 
conceive  the  passion  of  odd  moments,  when  the  wind 
threw  up  to  her  some  snatch  of  song,  and  her  heart 
grew  hot  within  her,  and  her  eyes  overflowed  at  the 
memory  of  the  past.  And  even  if  the  tale  be  not  true 
of  this  or  that  lady,  or  this  or  that  old  tower,  it  is  true 
in  the  essence  of  all  men  and  women:  for  all  of  us, 
some  time  or  other,  hear  the  gipsies  singing;  over  all 
of  us  is  the  glamour  cast.  Some  resist  and  sit  resolutely 
by  the  fire.  Most  go  and  are  brought  back  again,  like 
Lady  Cassilis.  A  few,  of  the  tribe  of  Waring,  go  and 
are  seen  no  more;  only  now  and  again,  at  springtime, 
when  the  gipsies'  song  is  afloat  in  the  amethyst  evening, 
we  can  catch  their  voices  in  the  glee. 

By  night  it  was  clearer,  and  Maybole  more  visible  than 
during  the  day.  Clouds  coursed  over  the  sky  in  great 
masses;  the  full  moon  battled  the  other  way,  and  lit  up 
the  snow  with  gleams  of  flying  silver;  the  town  came 
down  the  hill  in  a  cascade  of  brown  gables,  bestridden 
by  smooth  white  roofs,  and  spangled  here  and  there 

»43 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

with  lighted  windows.  At  either  end  the  snow  stood 
high  up  in  the  darkness,  on  the  peak  of  the  Tolbooth 
and  among  the  chimneys  of  the  Castle.  As  the  moon 
flashed  a  bull's-eye  glitter  across  the  town  between  the 
racing  clouds,  the  white  roofs  leaped  into  relief  over  the 
gables  and  the  chimney-stacks,  and  their  shadows  over 
the  white  roofs.  In  the  town  itself  the  lit  face  of  the 
clock  peered  down  the  street;  an  hour  was  hammered 
out  on  Mr.  Geli's  bell,  and  from  behind  the  red  curtains 
of  a  public-house  some  one  trolled  out— a  compatriot  of 
Burns,  again!— "The  saut  tear  blin's  my  e'e." 

Next  morning  there  was  sun  and  a  flapping  wind. 
From  the  street  corners  of  Maybole  I  could  catch  breezy 
glimpses  of  green  fields.  The  road  underfoot  was  wet 
and  heavy— part  ice,  part  snow,  part  water;  and  any 
one  I  met  greeted  me,  by  way  of  salutation,  with  "  A 
fine  thowe"  (thaw).  My  way  lay  among  rather  bleak 
hills,  and  past  bleak  ponds  and  dilapidated  castles  and 
monasteries,  to  the  Highland-looking  village  of  Kirkos- 
wald.  It  has  little  claim  to  notice,  save  that  Burns 
came  there  to  study  surveying  in  the  summer  of  1777, 
and  there  also,  in  the  kirkyard,  the  original  of  Tam  0' 
Shanter  sleeps  his  last  sleep.  It  is  worth  noticing,  how- 
ever, that  this  was  the  first  place  I  thought  "  Highland- 
looking."  Over  the  hill  from  Kirkoswald  a  farm-road 
leads  to  the  coast.  As  I  came  down  above  Turnberry, 
the  sea  view  was  indeed  strangely  different  from  the  day 
before.  The  cold  fogs  were  all  blown  away;  and  there 
was  Ailsa  Craig,  like  a  refraction,  magnified  and  de- 
formed, of  the  Bass  Rock;  and  there  were  the  chiselled 
mountain-tops  of  Arran,  veined  and  tipped  with  snow; 
and  behind,  and  fainter,  the  low,  blue  land  of  Cantyre. 

144 


A  WINTER'S  WALK   IN   CARRICK  AND   GALLOWAY 

Cottony  clouds  stood,  in  a  great  castle,  over  the  top  of 
Arran,  and  blew  out  in  long  streamers  to  the  south. 
The  sea  was  bitten  all  over  with  white;  little  ships, 
tacking  up  and  down  the  Firth,  lay  over  at  different 
angles  in  the  wind.  On  Shanter  they  were  ploughing 
lea;  a  cart  foal,  all  in  a  field  by  himself,  capered  and 
whinnied  as  if  the  spring  were  in  him. 

The  road  from  Turnberry  to  Girvan  lies  along  the 
shore,  among  sand-hills  and  by  wildernesses  of  tumbled 
bent.  Every  here  and  there  a  few  cottages  stood  to- 
gether beside  a  bridge.  They  had  one  odd  feature,  not 
easy  to  describe  in  words :  a  triangular  porch  projected 
from  above  the  door,  supported  at  the  apex  by  a  single 
upright  post;  a  secondary  door  was  hinged  to  the  post, 
and  could  be  hasped  on  either  cheek  of  the  real  entrance ; 
so,  whether  the  wind  was  north  or  south,  the  cotter 
could  make  himself  a  triangular  bight  of  shelter  where 
to  set  his  chair  and  finish  a  pipe  with  comfort.  There 
is  one  objection  to  this  device :  for,  as  the  post  stands 
in  the  middle  of  the  fairway,  any  one  precipitately 
issuing  from  the  cottage  must  run  his  chance  of  a 
broken  head.  So  far  as  I  am  aware,  it  is  peculiar  to 
the  little  corner  of  country  about  Girvan.  And  that 
corner  is  noticeable  for  more  reasons :  it  is  certamly  one 
of  the  most  characteristic  districts  in  Scotland.  It  has 
this  movable  porch  by  way  of  architecture;  it  has,  as 
we  shall  see,  a  sort  of  remnant  of  provincial  costume, 
and  it  has  the  handsomest  population  in  the  Low- 
lands. .  .  . 


145 


VIII 

FOREST  NOTES 
(1875-6) 

ON  THE  PLAIN 

Perhaps  the  reader  knows  already  the  aspect  of  the 
great  levels  of  the  Gatinais,  where  they  border  with  the 
wooded  hills  of  Fontainebleau.  Here  and  there  a  few 
grey  rocks  creep  out  of  the  forest  as  if  to  sun  them- 
selves. Here  and  there  a  few  apple-trees  stand  together 
on  a  knoll.  The  quaint,  undignified  tartan  of  a  myriad 
small  fields  dies  out  into  the  distance;  the  strips  blend 
and  disappear;  and  the  dead  flat  lies  forth  open  and 
empty,  with  no  accident  save  perhaps  a  thin  line  of 
trees  or  faint  church  spire  against  the  sky.  Solemn  and 
vast  at  all  times,  in  spite  of  pettiness  in  the  near  details, 
the  impression  becomes  more  solemn  and  vast  towards 
evening.  The  sun  goes  down,  a  swollen  orange,  as  it 
were  into  the  sea.  A  blue-clad  peasant  rides  home, 
with  a  harrow  smoking  behind  him  among  the  dry  clods. 
Another  still  works  with  his  wife  in  their  little  strip. 
An  immense  shadow  fills  the  plain;  these  people  stand 
in  it  up  to  their  shoulders ;  and  their  heads,  as  they  stoop 
over  their  work  and  rise  again,  are  relieved  from  time  to 
time  against  the  golden  sky. 

These  peasant  farmers  are  well  off  nowadays,  and 
146 


FOREST  NOTES 

not  by  any  means  overworked;  but  somehow  you 
always  see  in  them  the  historical  representative  of  the 
serf  of  yore,  and  think  not  so  much  of  present  times, 
which  may  be  prosperous  enough,  as  of  the  old  days 
when  the  peasant  was  taxed  beyond  possibility  of  pay- 
ment, and  lived,  in  Michelet's  image,  like  a  hare  between 
two  furrows.  These  very  people  now  weeding  their 
patch  under  the  broad  sunset,  that  very  man  and  his 
wife,  it  seems  to  us,  have  suffered  all  the  wrongs  of 
France.  It  is  they  who  have  been  their  country's  scape- 
goat for  long  ages ;  they  who,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, have  sowed  and  not  reaped,  reaped  and  another 
has  garnered;  and  who  have  now  entered  into  their 
reward,  and  enjoy  their  good  things  in  their  turn.  For 
the  days  are  gone  by  when  the  Seigneur  ruled  and  prof- 
ited. "  Le  Seigneur,"  says  the  old  formula,  "enferme 
ses  manants  comme  sous  porte  et  gonds,  du  ciel  a  la 
terre.  Tout  est  a  lui,  foret  chenue,  oiseau  dans  I'air, 
poisson  dans  I'eau,  bete  au  buisson,  I'onde  qui  coule, 
la  cloche  dont  le  son  au  loin  roule."  Such  was  his  old 
state  of  sovereignty,  a  local  god  rather  than  a  mere  king. 
And  now  you  may  ask  yourself  where  he  is,  and  look 
round  for  vestiges  of  my  late  lord,  and  in  all  the  coun- 
try-side there  is  no  trace  of  him  but  his  forlorn  and 
fallen  mansion.  At  the  end  of  a  long  avenue,  now 
sown  with  grain,  in  the  midst  of  a  close  full  of  cy- 
presses and  lilacs,  ducks  and  crowing  chanticleers  and 
droning  bees,  the  old  chateau  lifts  its  red  chimneys  and 
peaked  roofs  and  turning  vanes  into  the  wind  and  sun. 
There  is  a  glad  spring  bustle  in  the  air,  perhaps,  and 
the  lilacs  are  all  in  flower,  and  the  creepers  green  about 
the  broken  balustrade;  but  no  spring  shall  revive  the 

»47 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

honour  of  the  place.  Old  women  of  the  people,  little 
children  of  the  people,  saunter  and  gambol  in  the  walled 
court  or  feed  the  ducks  in  the  neglected  moat.  Plough- 
horses,  mighty  of  limb,  browse  in  the  long  stables.  The 
dial-hand  on  the  clock  waits  for  some  better  hour.  Out 
on  the  plain,  where  hot  sweat  trickles  into  men's  eyes, 
and  the  spade  goes  in  deep  and  comes  up  slowly,  per- 
haps the  peasant  may  feel  a  movement  of  joy  at  his 
heart  when  he  thinks  that  these  spacious  chimneys  are 
now  cold,  which  have  so  often  blazed  and  flickered 
upon  gay  folk  at  supper,  while  he  and  his  hollow-eyed 
children  watched  through  the  night  with  empty  bellies 
and  cold  feet.  And  perhaps,  as  he  raises  his  head  and 
sees  the  forest  lying  like  a  coast-line  of  low  hills  along 
the  sea-like  level  of  the  plain,  perhaps  forest  and  chateau 
hold  no  unsimilar  place  in  his  affections. 

If  the  chateau  was  my  lord's  the  forest  was  my  lord 
the  king's;  neither  of  them  for  this  poor  Jacques.  If 
he  thought  to  eke  out  his  meagre  way  of  life  by  some 
petty  theft  of  wood  for  the  fire,  or  for  a  new  roof-tree, 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  whole  department, 
from  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Woods  and  Waters,  who 
was  a  high-born  lord,  down  to  the  common  sergeant, 
who  was  a  peasant  like  himself,  and  wore  stripes  or  a 
bandoleer  by  way  of  uniform.  For  the  first  offence, 
by  the  Salic  law,  there  was  a  fine  of  fifteen  sols;  and 
should  a  man  be  taken  more  than  once  in  fault,  or  cir- 
cumstances aggravate  the  colour  of  his  guilt,  he  might 
be  whipped,  branded,  or  hanged.  There  was  a  hang- 
man over  at  Melun,  and,  I  doubt  not,  a  fine  tall  gibbet 
hard  by  the  town  gate,  where  Jacques  might  see  his 
fellows  dangle  against  the  sky  as  he  went  to  market. 

148 


FOREST  NOTES 

And  then,  if  he  lived  near  to  a  cover,  there  would  be 
the  more  hares  and  rabbits  to  eat  out  his  harvest,  and 
the  more  hunters  to  trample  it  down.  My  lord  has  a 
new  horn  from  England.  He  has  laid  out  seven  francs 
in  decorating  it  with  silver  and  gold,  and  fitting  it  with 
a  silken  leash  to  hang  about  his  shoulder.  The  hounds 
have  been  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  Saint  Mesmer, 
or  Saint  Hubert  in  the  Ardennes,  or  some  other  holy 
intercessor  who  has  made  a  specialty  of  the  health  of 
hunting-dogs.  In  the  grey  dawn  the  game  was  turned 
and  the  branch  broken  by  our  best  piqueur.  A  rare 
day's  hunting  lies  before  us.  Wind  a  jolly  flourish, 
sound  the  bien-aller  with  all  your  lungs.  Jacques 
must  stand  by,  hat  in  hand,  while  the  quarry  and  hound 
and  huntsman  sweep  across  his  field,  and  a  year's  spar- 
ing and  labouring  is  as  though  it  had  not  been.  If  he 
can  see  the  ruin  with  a  good  enough  grace,  who  knows 
but  he  may  fall  in  favour  with  my  lord;  who  knows 
but  his  son  may  become  the  last  and  least  among  the 
servants  at  his  lordship's  kennel— one  of  the  two  poor 
varlets  who  get  no  wages  and  sleep  at  night  among  the 
hounds  ?  ^ 

For  all  that,  the  forest  has  been  of  use  to  Jacques, 
not  only  warming  him  with  fallen  wood,  but  giving 
him  shelter  in  days  of  sore  trouble,  when  my  lord  of 
the  chateau,  with  all  his  troopers  and  trumpets,  had 
been  beaten  from  field  after  field  into  some  ultimate 
fastness,  or  lay  over-seas  in  an  English  prison.  In 
these  dark  days,  when  the  watch  on  the  church  steeple 

1  "  Deux  poures  varlez  qui  n'ont  nulz  gages  et  qui  gissoient  la  nuit  avec 
les  chiens."  See  Champollion-Figeac's  Louis  et  Charles  d^OrUans,  \, 
6},  and  for  my  lord's  English  horn,  ihid.  96. 

149 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

saw  the  smoke  of  burning  villages  on  the  sky-line,  or 
a  clump  of  spears  and  fluttering  pennons  drawing  nigh 
across  the  plain,  these  good  folk  gat  them  up,  with  all 
their  household  gods,  into  the  wood,  whence,  from 
some  high  spur,  their  timid  scouts  might  overlook  the 
coming  and  going  of  the  marauders,  and  see  the  harvest 
ridden  down,  and  church  and  cottage  go  up  to  heaven 
all  night  in  flame.  It  was  but  an  unhomely  refuge  that 
the  woods  afforded,  where  they  must  abide  all  change  of 
weather  and  keep  house  with  wolves  and  vipers.  Often 
there  was  none  left  alive,  when  they  returned,  to  show 
the  old  divisions  of  field  from  field.  And  yet,  as  times 
went,  when  the  wolves  entered  at  night  into  depopu- 
lated Paris,  and  perhaps  De  Retz  was  passing  by  with 
a  company  of  demons  like  himself,  even  in  these  caves 
and  thickets  there  were  glad  hearts  and  grateful  prayers. 
Once  or  twice,  as  I  say,  in  the  course  of  the  ages,  the 
forest  may  have  served  the  peasant  well,  but  at  heart 
it  is  a  royal  forest,  and  noble  by  old  association. 
These  woods  have  rung  to  the  horns  of  all  the  kings  of 
France,  from  Philip  Augustus  downwards.  They  have 
seen  Saint  Louis  exercise  the  dogs  he  brought  with  him 
from  Egypt;  Francis  I.  go  a-hunting  with  ten  thousand 
horses  in  his  train;  and  Peter  of  Russia  following  his 
first  stag.  And  so  they  are  still  haunted  for  the  imagi- 
nation by  royal  hunts  and  progresses,  and  peopled 
with  the  faces  of  memorable  men  of  yore.  And  this 
distinction  is  not  only  in  virtue  of  the  pastime  of  dead 
monarchs.  Great  events,  great  revolutions,  great  cycles 
in  the  affairs  of  men,  have  here  left  their  note,  here 
taken  shape  in  some  significant  and  dramatic  situation. 
It  was  hence  that  Guise  and  his  leaguers  led  Charles  the 

150 


FOREST  NOTES 

Ninth  a  prisoner  to  Paris.  Here,  booted  and  spurred, 
and  with  all  his  dogs  about  him.  Napoleon  met  the 
Pope  beside  a  woodland  cross.  Here,  on  his  way  to 
Elba  not  so  long  after,  he  kissed  the  eagle  of  the  Old 
Guard,  and  spoke  words  of  passionate  farewell  to  his 
soldiers.  And  here,  after  Waterloo,  rather  than  yield 
its  ensign  to  the  new  power,  one  of  his  faithful  regi- 
ments burned  that  memorial  of  so  much  toil  and  glory 
on  the  Grand  Master's  table,  and  drank  its  dust  in 
brandy,  as  a  devout  priest  consumes  the  remnants  of 
the  Host. 

IN   THE   SEASON 

Close  into  the  edge  of  the  forest,  so  close  that  the 
trees  of  the  bornage  stand  pleasantly  about  the  last 
houses,  sits  a  certain  small  and  very  quiet  village. 
There  is  but  one  street,  and  that,  not  long  ago,  was  a 
green  lane,  where  the  cattle  browsed  between  the 
door-steps.  As  you  go  up  this  street,  drawing  ever 
nearer  the  beginning  of  the  wood,  you  will  arrive  at 
last  before  an  inn  where  artists  lodge.  To  the  door 
(for  I  imagine  it  to  be  six  o'clock  on  some  fine  sum- 
mer's even),  half  a  dozen,  or  maybe  half  a  score,  of 
people  have  brought  out  chairs,  and  now  sit  sunning 
themselves,  and  waiting  the  omnibus  from  Melun. 
If  you  go  on  into  the  court  you  will  find  as  many 
more,  some  in  the  billiard-room  over  absinthe  and  a 
match  of  corks,  some  without  over  a  last  cigar  and  a 
vermouth.  The  doves  coo  and  flutter  from  the  dove- 
cote; Hortense  is  drawing  water  from  the  well;  and  as 
all  the  rooms  open  into  the  court,  you  can  see  the 
white-capped  cook  over  the  furnace  in  the  kitchen,  and 

«5« 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

some  idle  painter,  who  has  stored  his  canvases  and 
washed  his  brushes,  jangling  a  waltz  on  the  crazy, 
tongue-tied  piano  in  the  salle-a-manger.  "  Edmond, 
encore  un  vermouth,'*  cries  a  man  in  velveteen,  adding 
in  a  tone  of  apologetic  afterthought,  '' un  double,  sHl 
vous plait,''  "  Where  are  you  working  ?  "  asks  one  in 
pure  white  linen  from  top  to  toe.  *'  At  the  Carrefour 
de  I'Epine,"  returns  the  other  in  corduroy  (they  are  all 
gaitered,  by  the  way).  "I  could  n't  do  a  thing  to  it. 
I  ran  out  of  white.  Where  were  you.?  "  "I  was  n't 
working,  I  was  looking  for  motives."  Here  is  an  out- 
break of  jubilation,  and  a  lot  of  men  clustering  together 
about  some  new-comer  with  outstretched  hands ;  per- 
haps the  "  correspondence  "  has  come  in  and  brought 
So-and-so  from  Paris,  or  perhaps  it  is  only  So-and-so 
who  has  walked  over  from  Chailly  to  dinner. 

''A  table,  Messieurs!  "  cries  M.  Siron,  bearing  through 
the  court  the  first  tureen  of  soup.  And  immediately 
the  company  begins  to  settle  down  about  the  long  tables 
in  the  dining-room,  framed  all  round  with  sketches  of 
all  degrees  of  merit  and  demerit.  There  's  the  big 
picture  of  the  huntsman  winding  a  horn  with  a  dead 
boar  between  his  legs,  and  his  legs— well,  his  legs  in 
stockings.  And  here  is  the  little  picture  of  a  raw  mut- 
ton-chop, in  which  Such-a-one  knocked  a  hole  last 
summer  with  no  worse  a  missile  than  a  plum  from  the 
dessert.  And  under  all  these  works  of  art  so  much 
eating  goes  forward,  so  much  drinking,  so  much  jab- 
bering in  French  and  English,  that  it  would  do  your 
heart  good  merely  to  peep  and  listen  at  the  door.  One 
man  is  telling  how  they  all  went  last  year  to  the  fete 
at  Fleury,  and  another  how  well  So-and-so  would  sing 

152 


FOREST  NOTES 

of  an  evening;  and  here  are  a  third  and  fourth  making 
plans  for  the  whole  future  of  their  lives ;  and  there  is 
a  fifth  imitating  a  conjurer  and  making  faces  on  his 
clenched  fist,  surely  of  all  arts  the  most  difficult  and 
admirable!  A  sixth  has  eaten  his  fill,  lights  a  cigarette, 
and  resigns  himsdf  to  digestion.  A  seventh  has  just 
dropped  in,  and  calls  for  soup.  Number  eight,  mean- 
while, has  left  the  table,  and  is  once  more  trampling 
the  poor  piano  under  powerful  and  uncertain  fingers. 

Dinner  over,  people  drop  outside  to  smoke  and  chat. 
Perhaps  we  go  along  to  visit  our  friends  at  the  other 
end  of  the  village,  where  there  is  always  a  good  wel- 
come and  a  good  talk,  and  perhaps  some  pickled  oys- 
ters and  white  wine  to  close  the  evening.  Or  a  dance 
is  organised  in  the  dining-room,  and  the  piano  exhibits 
all  its  paces  under  manful  jockeying,  to  the  light  of  the 
three  or  four  candles  and  a  lamp  or  two,  while  the 
waltzers  move  to  and  fro  upon  the  wooden  floor,  and 
sober  men,  who  are  not  given  to  such  light  pleasures, 
get  up  on  the  table  or  the  sideboard,  and  sit  there 
looking  on  approvingly  over  a  pipe  and  a  tumbler  of 
wine.  Or  sometimes— suppose  my  lady  moon  looks 
forth,  and  the  court  from  out  the  half-lit  dining-room 
seems  nearly  as  bright  as  by  day,  and  the  light  picks 
out  the  window-panes,  and  makes  a  clear  shadow 
under  every  vine-leaf  on  the  wall— sometimes  a  picnic 
is  proposed,  and  a  basket  made  ready,  and  a  good 
procession  formed  in  front  of  the  hotel.  The  two 
trumpeters  in  honour  go  before;  and  as  we  file  down 
the  long  alley,  and  up  through  devious  footpaths 
among  rocks  and  pine-trees,  with  every  here  and  there 
a  dark  passage  of  shadow,  and  every  here  and  there  a 

»53 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

Spacious  outlook  over  moonlit  woods,  these  two  pre- 
cede us  and  sound  many  a  jolly  flourish  as  they  walk. 
We  gather  ferns  and  dry  boughs  into  the  cavern,  and 
soon  a  good  blaze  flutters  the  shadows  of  the  old 
bandits'  haunt,  and  shows  shapely  beards  and  comely 
faces  and  toilettes  ranged  about  the  wall.  The  bowl  is 
lit,  and  the  punch  is  burnt  and  sent  round  in  scalding 
thimblef uls.  So  a  good  hour  or  two  may  pass  with  song 
and  jest.  And  then  we  go  home  in  the  moonlight 
morning,  straggling  a  good  deal  among  the  birch  tufts 
and  the  boulders,  but  ever  called  together  again,  as 
one  of  our  leaders  winds  his  horn.  Perhaps  some  one 
of  the  party  will  not  heed  the  summons,  but  chooses  out 
some  by-way  of  his  own.  As  he  follows  the  winding 
sandy  road,  he  hears  the  flourishes  grow  fainter  and 
fainter  in  the  distance,  and  die  finally  out,  and  still 
walks  on  in  the  strange  coolness  and  silence  and  between 
the  crisp  lights  and  shadows  of  the  moonlit  woods, 
until  suddenly  the  bell  rings  out  the  hour  from  far- 
away Chailly,  and  he  starts  to  find  himself  alone.  No 
surf-bell  on  forlorn  and  perilous  shores,  no  passing 
knoll  over  the  busy  market-place,  can  speak  with  a 
more  heavy  and  disconsolate  tongue  to  human  ears. 
Each  stroke  calls  up  a  host  of  ghostly  reverberations  in 
his  mind.  And  as  he  stands  rooted,  it  has  grown  once 
more  so  utterly  silent  that  it  seems  to  him  he  might 
hear  the  church  bells  ring  the  hour  out  all  the  world 
over,  not  at  Chailly  only,  but  in  Paris,  and  away  in 
outlandish  cities,  and  in  the  village  on  the  river,  where 
his  childhood  passed  between  the  sun  and  flowers. 


154 


FOREST  NOTES 


IDLE  HOURS 


The  woods  by  night,  in  all  their  uncanny  effect,  are 
not  rightly  to  be  understood  until  you  can  compare 
them  with  the  woods  by  day.  The  stillness  of  the 
medium,  the  floor  of  glittering  sand,  these  trees  that  go 
streaming  up  like  monstrous  sea-weeds  and  waver  in 
the  moving  winds  like  the  weeds  in  submarine  cur- 
rents, all  these  set  the  mind  working  on  the  thought  of 
what  you  may  have  seen  off  a  foreland  or  over  the  side 
of  a  boat,  and  make  you  feel  like  a  diver,  down  in  the 
quiet  water,  fathoms  below  the  tumbling,  transitory 
surface  of  the  sea.  And  yet  in  itself,  as  I  say,  the 
strangeness  of  these  nocturnal  solitudes  is  not  to  be  felt 
fully  without  the  sense  of  contrast.  You  must  have 
risen  in  the  morning  and  seen  the  woods  as  they  are 
by  day,  kindled  and  coloured  in  the  sun's  light;  you 
must  have  felt  the  odour  of  innumerable  trees  at  even, 
the  unsparing  heat  along  the  forest  roads,  and  the  cool- 
ness of  the  groves. 

And  on  the  first  morning  you  will  doubtless  rise  be- 
times. If  you  have  not  been  wakened  before  by  the 
visit  of  some  adventurous  pigeon,  you  will  be  wakened 
as  soon  as  the  sun  can  reach  your  window— for  there 
are  no  blinds  or  shutters  to  keep  him  out— and  the  room, 
with  its  bare  wood  floor  and  bare  whitewashed  walls, 
shines  all  round  you  in  a  sort  of  glory  of  reflected  lights. 
You  may  doze  awhile  longer  by  snatches,  or  lie  awake 
to  study  the  charcoal  men  and  dogs  and  horses  with 
which  former  occupants  have  defiled  the  partitions: 
Thiers,  with  wily  profile;  local  celebrities,  pipe  in  hand; 

•55 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

or,  maybe,  a  romantic  landscape  splashed  in  oil. 
Meanwhile  artist  after  artist  drops  into  the  salle-a-man- 
ger  for  coffee,  and  then  shoulders  easel,  sunshade, 
stool,  and  paint-box,  bound  into  a  fagot,  and  sets  off 
for  what  he  calls  his  "  motive."  And  artist  after  artist, 
as  he  goes  out  of  the  village,  carries  with  him  a  little  fol- 
lowing of  dogs.  For  the  dogs,  who  belong  only  nom- 
inally to  any  special  master,  hang  about  the  gate  of  the 
forest  all  day  long,  and  whenever  any  one  goes  by  who 
hits  their  fancy,  profit  by  his  escort,  and  go  forth  with 
him  to  play  an  hour  or  two  at  hunting.  They  would 
like  to  be  under  the  trees  all  day.  But  they  cannot  go 
alone.  They  require  a  pretext.  And  so  they  take  the 
passing  artist  as  an  excuse  to  go  into  the  woods,  as 
they  might  take  a  walking-stick  as  an  excuse  to  bathe. 
With  quick  ears,  long  spines,  and  bandy  legs,  or  per- 
haps as  tall  as  a  greyhound  and  with  a  bulldog's  head, 
this  company  of  mongrels  will  trot  by  your  side  all  day 
and  come  home  with  you  at  night,  still  showing  white 
teeth  and  wagging  stunted  tail.  Their  good  humour  is 
not  to  be  exhausted.  You  may  pelt  them  with  stones 
if  you  please,  and  all  they  will  do  is  to  give  you  a 
wider  berth.  If  once  they  come  out  with  you,  to  you 
they  will  remain  faithful,  and  with  you  return ;  although 
if  you  meet  them  next  morning  in  the  street,  it  is  as 
like  as  not  they  will  cut  you  with  a  countenance  of 
brass. 

The  forest— a  strange  thing  for  an  Englishman— is 
very  destitute  of  birds.  This  is  no  country  where  every 
patch  of  wood  among  the  meadows  gives  up  an  in- 
cense of  song,  and  every  valley  wandered  through  by 
a  streamlet  rings  and  reverberates  from  side  to  side 

156 


FOREST  NOTES 

with  a  profusion  of  clear  notes.  And  this  rarity  of 
birds  is  not  to  be  regretted  on  its  own  account  only. 
For  the  Insects  prosper  in  their  absence,  and  become  as 
one  of  the  plagues  of  Egypt.  Ants  swarm  in  the  hot 
sand;  mosquitos  drone  their  nasal  drone;  wherever 
the  sun  finds  a  hole  in  the  roof  of  the  forest,  you  see 
a  myriad  transparent  creatures  coming  and  going  in  the 
shaft  of  light;  and  even  between-whiles,  even  where 
there  is  no  incursion  of  sun-rays  into  the  dark  arcade 
of  the  wood,  you  are  conscious  of  a  continual  drift  of 
insects,  an  ebb  and  flow  of  infinitesimal  living  things 
between  the  trees.  Nor  are  insects  the  only  evil  crea- 
tures that  haunt  the  forest.  For  you  may  plump  into 
a  cave  among  the  rocks,  and  find  yourself  face  to  face 
with  a  wild  boar,  or  see  a  crooked  viper  slither  across 
the  road. 

Perhaps  you  may  set  yourself  down  in  the  bay  be- 
tween two  spreading  beech-roots  with  a  book  on  your 
lap,  and  be  awakened  all  of  a  sudden  by  a  friend:  "I 
say,  just  keep  where  you  are,  will  you  ?  You  make 
the  jolliest  motive."  And  you  reply:  "Well,  I  don't 
mind,  if  I  may  smoke."  And  thereafter  the  hours  go 
idly  by.  Your  friend  at  the  easel  labours  doggedly  a 
little  way  off,  in  the  wide  shadow  of  the  tree ;  and  yet 
farther,  across  a  strait  of  glaring  sunshine,  you  see  an- 
other painter,  encamped  in  the  shadow  of  another  tree, 
and  up  to  his  waist  in  the  fern.  You  cannot  watch 
your  own  effigy  growing  out  of  the  white  trunk,  and 
the  trunk  beginning  to  stand  forth  from  the  rest  of  the 
wood,  and  the  whole  picture  getting  dappled  over  with 
the  flecks  of  sun  that  slip  through  the  leaves  overhead, 
and,  as  a  wind  goes  by  and  sets  the  trees  a-talking. 

157 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

flicker  hither  and  thither  like  butterflies  of  light.  But 
you  know  it  is  going  forward;  and,  out  of  emulation 
with  the  painter,  get  ready  your  own  palette,  and  lay 
out  the  colour  for  a  woodland  scene  in  words. 

Your  tree  stands  in  a  hollow  paved  with  fern  and 
heather,  set  in  a  basin  of  low  hills,  and  scattered  over 
with  rocks  and  junipers.  All  the  open  is  steeped  in 
pitiless  sunlight.  Everything  stands  out  as  though  it 
were  cut  in  cardboard,  every  colour  is  strained  into  its 
highest  key.  The  boulders  are  some  of  them  upright 
and  dead  like  monolithic  castles,  some  of  them  prone 
like  sleeping  cattle.  The  junipers— looking,  in  their 
soiled  and  ragged  mourning,  like  some  funeral  proces- 
sion that  has  gone  seeking  the  place  of  sepulchre  three 
hundred  years  and  more  in  wind  and  rain— are  daubed 
in  forcibly  against  the  glowing  ferns  and  heather. 
Every  tassel  of  their  rusty  foliage  is  defined  with  pre- 
Raphaelite  minuteness.  And  a  sorry  figure  they  make 
out  there  in  the  sun,  like  misbegotten  yew-trees !  The 
scene  is  all  pitched  in  a  key  of  colour  so  peculiar,  and 
lit  up  with  such  a  discharge  of  violent,  sunlight,  as  a 
man  might  live  fifty  years  in  England  and  not  see. 

Meanwhile  at  your  elbow  some  one  tunes  up  a  song, 
words  of  Ronsard  to  a  pathetic  tremulous  air,  of  how 
the  poet  loved  his  mistress  long  ago,  and  pressed  on 
her  the  flight  of  time,  and  told  her  how  white  and  quiet 
the  dead  lay  under  the  stones,  and  how  the  boat  dipped 
and  pitched  as  the  shades  embarked  for  the  passionless 
land.  Yet  a  little  while,  sang  the  poet,  and  there  shall 
be  no  more  love;  only  to  sit  and  remember  loves  that 
might  have  been.  There  is  a  falling  flourish  in  the  air 
that  remains  in  the  memory  and  comes  back  in  incon- 

158 


FOREST  NOTES 

gruous  places,  on  the  seat  of  hansoms  or  in  the  warm 
bed  at  night,  with  something  of  a  forest  savour. 

"You  can  get  up  now,"  says  the  painter;  "I  'm  at 
the  background." 

And  so  up  you  get,  stretching  yourself,  and  go  your 
way  into  the  wood,  the  daylight  becoming  richer  and 
more  golden,  and  the  shadows  stretching  farther  into 
the  open.  A  cool  air  comes  along  the  highways,  and 
the  scents  awaken.  The  fir-trees  breathe  abroad  their 
ozone.  Out  of  unknown  thickets  comes  forth  the  soft, 
secret,  aromatic  odour  of  the  woods,  not  like  a  smell  of 
the  free  heaven,  but  as  though  court  ladies,  who  had 
known  these  paths  in  ages  long  gone  by,  still  walked  in 
the  summer  evenings,  and  shed  from  their  brocades  a 
breath  of  musk  or  bergamot  upon  the  woodland  winds. 
One  side  of  the  long  avenues  is  still  kindled  with  the 
sun,  the  other  is  plunged  in  transparent  shadow.  Over 
the  trees  the  west  begins  to  burn  like  a  furnace;  and 
the  painters  gather  up  their  chattels,  and  go  down,  by 
avenue  or  footpath,  to  the  plain. 

A  PLEASURE   PARTY 

As  this  excursion  is  a  matter  of  some  length,  and, 
moreover,  we  go  in  force,  we  have  set  aside  our  usual 
vehicle,  the  pony-cart,  and  ordered  a  large  wagonette 
from  Lejosne's.  It  has  been  waiting  for  near  an  hour, 
while  one  went  to  pack  a  knapsack,  and  t'  other  hurried 
over  his  toilette  and  coffee;  but  now  it  is  filled  from  end 
to  end  with  merry  folk  in  summer  attire,  the  coachman 
cracks  his  whip,  and  amid  much  applause  from  round 
the  inn  door  off  we  rattle  at  a  spanking  trot.     The  way 

159 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

lies  through  the  forest,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  and  by 
beech  and  pine  wood,  in  the  cheerful  morning  sun- 
shine. The  English  get  down  at  all  the  ascents  and 
walk  on  ahead  for  exercise;  the  French  are  mightily 
entertained  at  this,  and  keep  coyly  underneath  the  tilt. 
As  we  go  we  carry  with  us  a  pleasant  noise  of  laughter 
and  light  speech,  and  some  one  will  be  always  break- 
ing out  into  a  bar  or  two  of  opera  boufife.  Before  we 
get  to  the  Route  Ronde  here  comes  Desprez,  the  col- 
ourman  from  Fontainebleau,  trudging  across  on  his 
weekly  peddle  with  a  case  of  merchandise;  and  it  is 
**  Desprez,  leave  me  some  malachite  green  " ;  "  Desprez, 
leave  me  so  much  canvas  " ;  "  Desprez,  leave  me  this, 
or  leave  me  that " ;  M.  Desprez  standing  the  while  in 
the  sunlight  with  grave  face  and  many  salutations. 
The  next  interruption  is  more  important.  For  some 
time  back  we  have  had  the  sound  of  cannon  in  our 
ears;  and  now,  a  little  past  Franchard,  we  find  a 
mounted  trooper  holding  a  led  horse,  who  brings  the 
wagonette  to  a  stand.  The  artillery  is  practising  in  the 
Quadrilateral,  it  appears;  passage  along  the  Route 
Ronde  formally  interdicted  for  the  moment.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  draw  up  at  the  glaring  cross-roads, 
and  get  down  to  make  fun  with  the  notorious  Cocardon, 
the  most  ungainly  and  ill-bred  dog  of  all  the  ungainly 
and  ill-bred  dogs  of  Barbizon,  or  clamber  about  the 
sandy  banks.  And  meanwhile  the  Doctor,  with  sun 
umbrella,  wide  Panama,  and  patriarchal  beard,  is  busy 
wheedling  and  (for  aught  the  rest  of  us  know)  bribing 
the  too  facile  sentry.  His  speech  is  smooth  and  dulcet, 
his  manner  dignified  and  insinuating.  It  is  not  for 
nothing  that  the  Doctor  has  voyaged  all  the  world  over, 

160 


FOREST  NOTES 

and  speaks  all  languages  from  French  to  Patagonian. 
He  has  not  come  home  from  perilous  journeys  to  be 
thwarted  by  a  corporal  of  horse.  And  so  we  soon  see 
the  soldier's  mouth  relax,  and  his  shoulders  imitate  a 
relenting  heart.  '' En  voiture,  Messieurs,  Mesdames,'* 
sings  the  Doctor;  and  on  we  go  again  at  a  good  round 
pace,  for  black  care  follows  hard  after  us,  and  discre- 
tion prevails  not  a  little  over  valour  in  some  timorous 
spirits  of  the  party.  At  any  moment  we  may  meet  the 
sergeant,  who  will  send  us  back.  At  any  moment  we 
may  encounter  a  flying  shell,  which  will  send  us  some- 
where farther  off  than  Grez. 

Grez— for  that  is  our  destination— has  been  highly 
recommended  for  its  beauty.  "  II y  a  de  Veau,"  people 
have  said,  with  an  emphasis,  as  if  that  settled  the  ques- 
tion, which,  for  a  French  mind,  I  am  rather  led  to  think 
it  does.  And  Grez,  when  we  get  there,  is  indeed  a 
place  worthy  of  some  praise.  It  lies  out  of  the  forest,  a 
cluster  of  houses,  with  an  old  bridge,  an  old  castle  in 
ruin,  and  a  quaint  old  church.  The  inn  garden  de- 
scends in  terraces  to  the  river;  stable-yard,  kailyard, 
orchard,  and  a  space  of  lawn,  fringed  with  rushes  and 
embellished  with  a  green  arbour.  On  the  opposite 
bank  there  is  a  reach  of  English-looking  plain,  set  thickly 
with  willows  and  poplars.  And  between  the  two  lies 
the  river,  clear  and  deep,  and  full  of  reeds  and  floating 
lilies.  Water-plants  cluster  about  the  starlings  of  the 
long  low  bridge,  and  stand  half-way  up  upon  the  piers 
in  green  luxuriance.  They  catch  the  dipped  oar  with 
long  antennae,  and  chequer  the  slimy  bottom  with  the 
shadow  of  their  leaves.  And  the  river  wanders  hither 
and  thither  among  the  islets,  and  is  smothered  and 

i6i 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

broken  up  by  the  reeds,  like  an  old  building  in  the  lithe, 
hardy  arms  of  the  climbing  ivy.  You  may  watch  the 
box  where  the  good  man  of  the  inn  keeps  fish  alive  for 
his  kitchen,  one  oily  ripple  following  another  over 
the  top  of  the  yellow  deal.  And  you  can  hear  a  splash- 
ing and  a  prattle  of  voices  from  the  shed  under  the  old 
kirk,  where  the  village  women  wash  and  wash  all  day 
among  the  fish  and  water-lilies.  It  seems  as  if  linen 
washed  there  should  be  specially  cool  and  sweet. 

We  have  come  here  for  the  river.  And  no  sooner 
have  we  all  bathed  than  we  board  the  two  shallops  and 
push  off  gaily,  and  go  gliding  under  the  trees  and 
gathering  a  great  treasure  of  water-lilies.  Some  one 
sings;  some  trail  their  hands  in  the  cool  water;  some 
lean  over  the  gunwale  to  see  the  image  of  the  tall  pop- 
lars far  below,  and  the  shadow  of  the  boat,  with  the 
balanced  oars  and  their  own  head  protruded,  glide 
smoothly  over  the  yellow  floor  of  the  stream.  At  last, 
the  day  declining— all  silent  and  happy,  and  up  to  the 
knees  in  the  wet  lilies— we  punt  slowly  back  again  to 
the  landing-place  beside  the  bridge.  There  is  a  wish 
for  solitude  on  all.  One  hides  himself  in  the  arbour 
with  a  cigarette;  another  goes  a  walk  in  the  country 
with  Cocardon ;  a  third  inspects  the  church.  And  it  is 
not  till  dinner  is  on  the  table,  and  the  inn's  best  wine 
goes  round  from  glass  to  glass,  that  we  begin  to  throw 
off  the  restraint  and  fuse  once  more  into  a  jolly  fellow- 
ship. 

Half  the  party  are  to  return  to-night  with  the  wagon- 
ette; and  some  of  the  others,  loath  to  break  up  good 
company,  will  go  with  them  a  bit  of  the  way  and  drink 
a  stirrup-cup  at  Marlotte.     It  is  dark  in  the  wagonette, 

162 


FOREST  NOTES 

and  not  so  merry  as  it  might  have  been.  The  coach- 
man loses  the  road.  So-and-so  tries  to  light  fireworks 
with  the  most  indifferent  success.  Some  sing,  but  the 
rest  are  too  weary  to  applaud;  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
festival  were  fairly  at  an  end— 

"  Nous  avons  fait  la  noce, 
Rentrons  a  nos  foyers!  " 

And  such  is  the  burthen,  even  after  we  have  come  to 
Marlotte  and  taken  our  places  in  the  court  at  Mother 
Antonine's.  There  is  punch  on  the  long  table  out  in 
the  open  air,  where  the  guests  dine  in  summer  weather. 
The  candles  flare  in  the  night  wind,  and  the  faces  round 
the  punch  are  lit  up,  with  shifting  emphasis,  against  a 
background  of  complete  and  solid  darkness.  It  is  all 
picturesque  enough;  but  the  fact  is,  we  are  aweary. 
We  yawn ;  we  are  out  of  the  vein ;  we  have  made  the 
wedding,  as  the  song  says,  and  now,  for  pleasure's 
sake,  let  's  make  an  end  on  't.  When  here  comes 
striding  into  the  court,  booted  to  mid-thigh,  spurred 
and  splashed,  in  a  jacket  of  green  cord,  the  great, 
famous,  and  redoubtable  Blank;  and  in  a  moment  the 
fire  kindles  again,  and  the  night  is  witness  of  our 
laughter  as  he  imitates  Spaniards,  Germans,  English- 
men, picture-dealers,  all  eccentric  ways  of  speaking 
and  thinking,  with  a  possession,  a  fury,  a  strain  of 
mind  and  voice,  that  would  rather  suggest  a  nervous 
crisis  than  a  desire  to  please.  We  are  as  merry  as  ever 
when  the  trap  sets  forth  again,  and  say  farewell  noisily 
to  all  the  good  folk  going  farther.  Then,  as  we  are 
far  enough  from  thoughts  of  sleep,  we  visit  Blank  in 
his  quaint  house,  and  sit  an  hour  or  so  in  a  great  tapes- 

163 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

tried  chamber,  laid  with  furs,  littered  with  sleeping 
hounds,  and  lit  up,  in  fantastic  shadow  and  shine,  by 
a  wood  fire  in  a  mediaeval  chimney.  And  then  we 
plod  back  through  the  darkness  to  the  inn  beside  the 
river. 

How  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion !  When 
we  arise  next  morning,  the  grey  showers  fall  steadily, 
the  trees  hang  limp,  and  the  face  of  the  stream  is  spoiled 
with  dimpling  raindrops.  Yesterday's  lilies  encumber 
the  garden  walk,  or  begin,  dismally  enough,  their  voy- 
age towards  the  Seine  and  the  salt  sea.  A  sickly  shim- 
mer lies  upon  the  dripping  house-roofs,  and  all  the 
colour  is  washed  out  of  the  green  and  golden  landscape 
of  last  night,  as  though  an  envious  man  had  taken  a 
water-colour  sketch  and  blotted  it  together  with  a 
sponge.  We  go  out  a-walking  in  the  wet  roads.  But 
the  roads  about  Grez  have  a  trick  of  their  own.  They 
go  on  for  a  while  among  clumps  of  willows  and 
patches  of  vine,  and  then,  suddenly  and  without  any 
warning,  cease  and  determine  in  some  miry  hollow  or 
upon  some  bald  know;  and  you  have  a  short  period 
of  hope,  then  right-about  face,  and  back  the  way  you 
came!  So  we  draw  about  the  kitchen  fire  and  play  a 
round  game  of  cards  for  ha'pence,  or  go  to  the  billiard- 
room  for  a  match  at  corks ;  and  by  one  consent  a  mes- 
senger is  sent  over  for  the  wagonette— Grez  shall  be 
left  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  dawns  so  fair  that  two  of  the  party  agree 
to  walk  back  for  exercise,  and  let  their  knapsacks  fol- 
low by  the  trap.  1  need  hardly  say  they  are  neither  of 
them  French;  for,  of  all  English  phrases,  the  phrase 
"for  exercise"  is  the  least  comprehensible  across  the 

164 


FOREST  NOTES 

Straits  of  Dover.  All  goes  well  for  a  while  with  the 
pedestrians.  The  wet  woods  are  full  of  scents  in  the 
noontide.  At  a  certain  cross,  where  there  is  a  guard- 
house, they  make  a  halt,  for  the  forester's  wife  is  the 
daughter  of  their  good  host  at  Barbizon.  And  so  there 
they  are  hospitably  received  by  the  comely  woman, 
with  one  child  in  her  arms  and  another  prattling  and 
tottering  at  her  gown,  and  drink  some  syrup  of  quince 
in  the  back  parlour,  with  a  map  of  the  forest  on  the 
wall,  and  some  prints  of  love-affairs  and  the  great 
Napoleon  hunting.  As  they  draw  near  the  Quadri- 
lateral, and  hear  once  more  the  report  of  the  big  guns, 
they  take  a  by-road  to  avoid  the  sentries,  and  go  on 
awhile  somewhat  vaguely,  with  the  sound  of  the  can- 
non in  their  ears  and  the  rain  beginning  to  fall.  The 
ways  grow  wider  and  sandier;  here  and  there  there 
are  real  sand-hills,  as  though  by  the  sea-shore;  the  fir- 
wood  is  open  and  grows  in  clumps  upon  the  hillocks, 
and  the  race  of  sign-posts  is  no  more.  One  begins  to 
look  at  the  other  doubtfully.  "  I  am  sure  we  should 
keep  more  to  the  right,"  says  one;  and  the  other  is  just 
as  certain  they  should  hold  to  the  left.  And  now, 
suddenly,  the  heavens  open,  and  the  rain  falls  "sheer 
and  strong  and  loud,"  as  out  of  a  shower-bath.  In  a 
moment  they  are  as  wet  as  shipwrecked  sailors.  They 
cannot  see  out  of  their  eyes  for  the  drift,  and  the  water 
churns  and  gurgles  in  their  boots.  They  leave  the  track 
and  try  across  country  with  a  gambler's  desperation, 
for  it  seems  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  make  the  situa- 
tion worse;  and,  for  the  next  hour,  go  scrambling  from 
boulder  to  boulder,  or  plod  along  paths  that  are  now 
no  more  than  rivulets,  and  across  waste  clearings  where 

165 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

the  scattered  shells  and  broken  fir-trees  tell  all  too 
plainly  of  the  cannon  in  the  distance.  And  meantime 
the  cannon  grumble  out  responses  to  the  grumbling 
thunder.  There  is  such  a  mixture  of  melodrama  and 
sheer  discomfort  about  all  this,  it  is  at  once  so  grey 
and  so  lurid,  that  it  is  far  more  agreeable  to  read  and 
write  about  by  the  chimney-corner  than  to  suffer  in  the 
person.  At  last  they  chance  on  the  right  path,  and 
make  Franchard  in  the  early  evening,  the  sorriest  pair 
of  wanderers  that  ever  welcomed  English  ale.  Thence, 
by  the  Bois  d'Hyver,  the  Ventes-Alexandre,  and  the 
Pins  Brules,  to  the  clean  hostelry,  dry  clothes,  and 
dinner. 

THE   WOODS   IN   SPRING 

I  think  you  will  like  the  forest  best  in  the  sharp  early 
springtime,  when  it  is  just  beginning  to  reawaken, 
and  innumerable  violets  peep  from  among  the  fallen 
leaves ;  when  two  or  three  people  at  most  sit  down  to 
dinner,  and,  at  table,  you  will  do  well  to  keep  a  rug 
about  your  knees,  for  the  nights  are  chill,  and  the  salle- 
a-manger  opens  on  the  court.  There  is  less  to  distract 
the  attention,  for  one  thing,  and  the  forest  is  more 
itself.  It  is  not  bedotted  with  artists'  sunshades  as 
with  unknown  mushrooms,  nor  bestrewn  with  the 
remains  of  English  picnics.  The  hunting  still  goes  on, 
and  at  any  moment  your  heart  may  be  brought  into 
your  mouth  as  you  hear  far-away  horns ;  or  you  may 
be  told  by  an  agitated  peasant  that  the  Vicomte  has 
gone  up  the  avenue,  not  ten  minutes  since,  ''  dfond  de 
train,  monsieur,  et  avec  dou^e piqueurs.'' 

If  you  go  up  to  some  coign  of  vantage  in  the  system 
166 


FOREST  NOTES 

of  low  hills  that  permeates  the  forest,  you  will  see 
many  different  tracts  of  country,  each  of  its  own  cold 
and  melancholy  neutral  tint,  and  all  mixed  together  and 
mingled  the  one  into  the  other  at  the  seams.  You  will 
see  tracts  of  leafless  beeches  of  a  faint  yellowish  grey, 
and  leafless  oaks  a  little  ruddier  in  the  hue.  Then 
zones  of  pine  of  a  solemn  green;  and,  dotted  among 
the  pines,  or  standing  by  themselves  in  rocky  clearings, 
the  delicate,  snow-white  trunks  of  birches,  spreading 
out  into  snow-white  branches  yet  more  delicate,  and 
crowned  and  canopied  with  a  purple  haze  of  twigs. 
And  then  a  long,  bare  ridge  of  tumbled  boulders,  with 
bright  sand-breaks  between  them,  and  wavering  sandy 
roads  among  the  bracken  and  brown  heather.  It  is  all 
rather  cold  and  unhomely.  It  has  not  the  perfect 
beauty,  nor  the  gem-like  colouring,  of  the  wood  in 
the  later  year,  when  it  is  no  more  than  one  vast  colon- 
nade of  verdant  shadow,  tremulous  with  insects,  inter- 
sected here  and  there  by  lanes  of  sunlight  set  in  purple 
heather.  The  loveliness  of  the  woods  in  March  is  not, 
assuredly,  of  this  blowzy  rustic  type.  It  is  made  sharp 
with  a  grain  of  salt,  with  a  touch  of  ugliness.  It  has 
a  sting  like  the  sting  of  bitter  ale;  you  acquire  the  love 
of  it  as  men  acquire  a  taste  for  olives.  And  the  won- 
derful clear,  pure  air  wells  into  your  lungs  the  while  by 
voluptuous  inhalations,  and  makes  the  eyes  bright,  and 
sets  the  heart  tinkling  to  a  new  tune— or,  rather,  to  an 
old  tune;  for  you  remember  in  your  boyhood  something 
akin  to  this  spirit  of  adventure,  this  thirst  for  explora- 
tion, that  now  takes  you  masterfully  by  the  hand, 
plunges  you  into  many  a  deep  grove,  and  drags  you 
over  many  a  stony  crest.     It  is  as  if  the  whole  wood 

167 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

were  full  of  friendly  voices  calling  you  farther  in,  and 
you  turn  from  one  side  to  another,  like  Buridan's  don- 
key, in  a  maze  of  pleasure. 

Comely  beeches  send  up  their  white,  straight,  clus- 
tered branches,  barred  with  green  moss,  like  so  many 
fingers  from  a  half-clenched  hand.  Mighty  oaks  stand 
to  the  ankles  in  a  fine  tracery  of  underwood;  thence 
the  tall  shaft  climbs  upwards,  and  the  great  forest  of 
stalwart  boughs  spreads  out  into  the  golden  evening 
sky,  where  the  rooks  are  flying  and  calling.  On  the 
sward  of  the  Bois  d'Hyver  the  firs  stand  well  asunder 
with  outspread  arms,  like  fencers  saluting;  and  the  air 
smells  of  resin  all  around,  and  the  sound  of  the  axe  is 
rarely  still.  But  strangest  of  all,  and  in  appearance 
oldest  of  all,  are  the  dim  and  wizard  upland  districts  of 
young  wood.  The  ground  is  carpeted  with  fir-tassel, 
and  strewn  with  fir-apples  and  flakes  of  fallen  bark. 
Rocks  lie  crouching  in  the  thicket,  guttered  with  rain, 
tufted  with  lichen,  white  with  years  and  the  rigours 
of  the  changeful  seasons.  Brown  and  yellow  butter- 
flies are  sown  and  carried  away  again  by  the  light  air- 
like  thistledown.  The  loneliness  of  these  coverts  is  so 
excessive,  that  there  are  moments  when  pleasure  draws 
to  the  verge  of  fear.  You  listen  and  listen  for  some 
noise  to  break  the  silence,  till  you  grow  half  mesmer- 
ised by  the  intensity  of  the  strain ;  your  sense  of  your 
own  identity  is  troubled;  your  brain  reels,  like  that  of 
some  gymnosophist  poring  on  his  own  nose  in  Asiatic 
jungles;  and  should  you  see  your  own  outspread  feet, 
you  see  them,  not  as  anything  of  yours,  but  as  a  feature 
of  the  scene  around  you. 

Still  the  forest  is  always,  but  the  stillness  is  not  al- 
i68 


FOREST  NOTES 

ways  unbroken.  You  can  hear  the  wind  pass  in  the 
distance  over  the  tree-tops ;  sometimes  briefly,  like  the 
noise  of  a  train;  sometimes  with  a  long  steady  rush, 
like  the  breaking  of  waves.  And  sometimes,  close  at 
hand,  the  branches  move,  a  moan  goes  through  the 
thicket,  and  the  wood  thrills  to  its  heart.  Perhaps  you 
may  hear  a  carriage  on  the  road  to  Fontainebleau,  a  bird 
gives  a  dry  continual  chirp,  the  dead  leaves  rustle 
underfoot,  or  you  may  time  your  steps  to  the  steady 
recurrent  strokes  of  the  woodman's  axe.  From  time  to 
time,  over  the  low  grounds,  a  flight  of  rooks  goes  by ; 
and  from  time  to  time  the  cooing  of  wild  doves  falls 
upon  the  ear,  not  sweet  and  rich  and  near  at  hand  as  in 
England,  but  a  sort  of  voice  of  the  woods,  thin  and  far 
away,  as  fits  these  solemn  places.  Or  you  hear  sud- 
denly the  hollow,  eager,  violent  barking  of  dogs ;  scared 
deer  flit  past  you  through  the  fringes  of  the  wood ;  then 
a  man  or  two  running,  in  green  blouse,  with  gun  and 
game-bag  on  a  bandoleer;  and  then,  out  of  the  thick  of 
the  trees,  comes  the  jar  of  rifle-shots.  Or  perhaps  the 
hounds  are  out,  and  horns  are  blown,  and  scarlet-coated 
huntsmen  flash  through  the  clearings,  and  the  solid 
noise  of  horses  galloping  passes  below  you,  where  you 
sit  perched  among  the  rocks  and  heather.  The  boar 
is  afoot,  and  all  over  the  forest,  and  in  all  neighbour- 
ing villages,  there  is  a  vague  excitement  and  a  vague 
hope;  for  who  knows  whither  the  chase  may  lead  ?  and 
even  to  have  seen  a  single  piqueur,  or  spoken  to  a  sin- 
gle sportsman,  is  to  be  a  man  of  consequence  for  the 
night. 

Besides  men  who  shoot  and  men  who  ride  with  the 
hounds,  there  are  few  people  in  the  forest,  in  the  early 

169 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

spring,  save  wood-cutters  plying  their  axes  steadily,  and 
old  women  and  children  gathering  wood  for  the  fire. 
You  may  meet  such  a  party  coming  home  in  the  twi- 
light: the  old  woman  laden  with  a  fagot  of  chips,  and 
the  little  ones  hauling  a  long  branch  behind  them  in  her 
wake.  That  is  the  worst  of  what  there  is  to  encounter ; 
and  if  I  tell  you  of  what  once  happened  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  it  is  by  no  means  to  tantalise  you  with  false 
hopes;  for  the  adventure  was  unique.  It  was  on  a 
very  cold,  still,  sunless  morning,  with  a  flat  grey  sky 
and  a  frosty  tingle  in  the  air,  that  this  friend  (who  shall 
here  be  nameless)  heard  the  notes  of  a  key-bugle  played 
with  much  hesitation,  and  saw  the  smoke  of  a  fire 
spread  out  along  the  green  pine-tops,  in  a  remote  un- 
canny glen,  hard  by  a  hill  of  naked  boulders.  He  drew 
near  warily,  and  beheld  a  picnic  party  seated  under  a 
tree  in  an  open.  The  old  father  knitted  a  sock,  the 
mother  sat  staring  at  the  fire.  The  eldest  son,  in  the 
uniform  of  a  private  of  dragoons,  was  choosing  out 
notes  on  a  key-bugle.  Two  or  three  daughters  lay  in 
the  neighbourhood  picking  violets.  And  the  whole 
party  as  grave  and  silent  as  the  woods  around  them ! 
My  friend  watched  for  a  long  time,  he  says ;  but  all  held 
their  peace;  not  one  spoke  or  smiled;  only  the  dragoon 
kept  choosing  out  single  notes  upon  the  bugle,  and  the 
father  knitted  away  at  his  work  and  made  strange 
movements  the  while  with  his  flexible  eyebrows.  They 
took  no  notice  whatever  of  my  friend's  presence,  which 
was  disquieting  in  itself,  and  increased  the  resemblance 
of  the  whole  party  to  mechanical  waxworks.  Cer- 
tainly, he  affirms,  a  wax  figure  might  have  played  the 
bugle  with  more  spirit  than  that  strange  dragoon.     And 

170 


FOREST  NOTES 

as  this  hypothesis  of  his  became  more  certain,  the  awful 
insolubility  of  why  they  should  be  left  out  there  in  the 
woods  with  nobody  to  wind  them  up  again  when  they 
ran  down,  and  a  growing  disquietude  as  to  what  might 
happen  next,  became  too  much  for  his  courage,  and  he 
turned  tail,  and  fairly  took  to  his  heels.  It  might  have 
been  a  singing  in  his  ears,  but  he  fancies  he  was  fol- 
lowed as  he  ran  by  a  peal  of  Titanic  laughter.  Nothing 
has  ever  transpired  to  clear  up  the  mystery;  it  may  be 
they  were  automata ;  or  it  may  be  (and  this  is  the  the- 
ory to  which  1  lean  myself)  that  this  is  all  another  chap- 
ter of  Heine's  "Gods  in  Exile";  that  the  upright  old 
man  with  the  eyebrows  was  no  other  than  Father  Jove, 
and  the  young  dragoon  with  the  taste  for  music  either 
Apollo  or  Mars. 

MORALITY 

Strange  indeed  is  the  attraction  of  the  forest  for  the 
minds  of  men.  Not  one  or  two  only,  but  a  great  chorus 
of  grateful  voices  have  arisen  to  spread  abroad  its  fame. 
Half  the  famous  writers  of  modern  France  have  had 
their  word  to  say  about  Fontainebleau.  Chateaubriand, 
Michelet,  Beranger,  George  Sand,  de  Senancour,  Flau- 
bert, Murger,  the  brothers  Goncourt,  Theodore  de 
Banville,  each  of  these  has  done  something  to  the  eter- 
nal praise  and  memory  of  these  woods.  Even  at  the 
very  worst  of  times,  even  when  the  picturesque  was 
anathema  in  the  eyes  of  all  Persons  of  Taste,  the  forest 
still  preserved  a  certain  reputation  for  beauty.  It  was 
in  1730  that  the  Abbe  Guilbert  published  his  Historical 
Description  of  the  Palace,  Town,  and  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,    And  very  droll  it  is  to  see  him,  as  he  tries  to 

171 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

set  forth  his  admiration  in  terms  of  what  was  then 
permissible.  The  monstrous  rocks,  etc. ,  says  the  Abbe, 
"  sont  admirees  avec  surprise  des  voyageurs  qui  s'ecri- 
ent  aussitot  avec  Horace:  Ut  mihi  devio  rupes  et 
vacuum  nemus  mirari  libet."  The  good  man  is  not 
exactly  lyrical  in  his  praise;  and  you  see  how  he  sets 
his  back  against  Horace  as  against  a  trusty  oak.  Hor- 
ace, at  any  rate,  was  classical.  For  the  rest,  however, 
the  Abbe  likes  places  where  many  alleys  meet;  or 
which,  like  the  Belle-Etoile,  are  kept  up  *'  by  a  special 
gardener,"  and  admires  at  the  Table  du  Roi  the  labours 
of  the  Grand  Master  of  Woods  and  Waters,  the  Sieur 
de  la  Falure^  "qui  a  fait  faire  ce  magnifique endroit." 

But  indeed,  it  is  not  so  much  for  its  beauty  that  the 
forest  makes  a  claim  upon  men's  hearts,  as  for  that 
subtle  something,  that  quality  of  the  air,  that  emana- 
tion from  the  old  trees,  that  so  wonderfully  changes 
and  renews  a  weary  spirit.  Disappointed  men,  sick 
Francis  Firsts  and  vanquished  Grand  Monarchs,  time 
out  of  mind  have  come  here  for  consolation.  Hither 
perplexed  folk  have  retired  out  of  the  press  of  life,  as 
into  a  deep  bay-window  on  some  night  of  masquerade, 
and  here  found  quiet  and  silence,  and  rest,  the  mother 
of  wisdom.  It  is  the  great  moral  spa;  this  forest  with- 
out a  fountain  is  itself  the  great  fountain  of  Juventius. 
It  is  the  best  place  in  the  world  to  bring  an  old  sorrow, 
that  has  been  a  long  while  your  friend  and  enemy;  and 
if,  like  Beranger's,  your  gaiety  has  run  away  from  home 
and  left  open  the  door  for  sorrow  to  come  in,  of  all 
covers  in  Europe,  it  is  here  you  may  expect  to  find  the 
truant  hid.  With  every  hour  you  change.  The  air 
penetrates  through  your  clothes,  and  nestles  to  your 

172 


FOREST  NOTES 

living  body.  You  love  exercise  and  slumber,  long 
fasting  and  full  meals.  You  forget  all  your  scruples 
and  live  awhile  in  peace  and  freedom,  and  for  the 
moment  only.  For  here,  all  is  absent  that  can  stimu- 
late to  moral  feeling.  Such  people  as  you  see  may  be 
old,  or  toil-worn,  or  sorry ;  but  you  see  them  framed  in 
the  forest,  like  figures  on  a  painted  canvas ;  and  for  you, 
they  are  not  people  in  any  living  and  kindly  sense.  You 
forget  the  grim  contrariety  of  interests.  You  forget 
the  narrow  lane  where  all  men  jostle  together  in  un- 
chivalrous  contention,  and  the  kennel,  deep  and  unclean, 
that  gapes  on  either  hand  for  the  defeated.  Life  is 
simple  enough,  it  seems,  and  the  very  idea  of  sacrifice 
becomes  like  a  mad  fancy  out  of  a  last  night's  dream. 
Your  ideal  is  not  perhaps  high,  but  it  is  plain  and 
possible.  You  become  enamoured  of  a  life  of  change 
and  movement  and  the  open  air,  where  the  muscles 
shall  be  more  exercised  than  the  affections.  When 
you  have  had  your  will  of  the  forest,  you  may  visit  the 
whole  round  world.  You  may  buckle  on  your  knap- 
sack and  take  the  road  on  foot.  You  may  bestride  a 
good  nag,  and  ride  forth,  with  a  pair  of  saddle-bags, 
into  the  enchanted  East.  You  may  cross  the  Black 
Forest,  and  see  Germany  wide-spread  before  you,  like  a 
map,  dotted  with  old  cities,  walled  and  spired,  that 
dream  all  day  on  their  own  reflections  in  the  Rhine  or 
Danube.  You  may  pass  the  spinal  cord  of  Europe  and 
go  down  from  Alpine  glaciers  to  where  Italy  extends 
her  marble  moles  and  glasses  her  marble  palaces  in  the 
midland  sea.  You  may  sleep  in  flying  trains  or  wayside 
taverns.  You  may  be  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  scream 
of  the  express  or  the  small  pipe  of  the  robin  in  the 

173 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

hedge.  For  you  the  rain  should  allay  the  dust  of  the 
beaten  road;  the  wind  dry  your  clothes  upon  you  as 
you  walked.  Autumn  should  hang  out  russet  pears 
and  purple  grapes  along  the  lane;  inn  after  inn  proffer 
you  their  cups  of  raw  wine;  river  by  river  receive  your 
body  in  the  sultry  noon.  Wherever  you  went  warm 
valleys  and  high  trees  and  pleasant  villages  should  com- 
pass you  about;  and  light  fellowships  should  take  you 
by  the  arm,  and  walk  with  you  an  hour  upon  your 
way.  You  may  see  from  afar  off  what  it  will  come  to 
in  the  end— the  weather-beaten  red-nosed  vagabond, 
consumed  by  a  fever  of  the  feet,  cut  off  from  all  near 
touch  of  human  sympathy,  a  waif,  an  Ishmael,  and  an 
outcast.  And  yet  it  will  seem  well— and  yet,  in  the  air 
of  the  forest,  this  will  seem  the  best— to  break  all  the 
network  bound  about  your  feet  by  birth  and  old  com- 
panionship and  loyal  love,  and  bear  your  shovelful  of 
phosphates  to  and  fro,  in  town  and  country,  until  the 
hour  of  the  great  dissolvent. 

Or,  perhaps,  you  will  keep  to  the  cover.  For  the 
forest  is  by  itself,  and  forest  life  owns  small  kinship 
with  life  in  the  dismal  land  of  labour.  Men  are  so  far 
sophisticated  that  they  cannot  take  the  world  as  it  is 
given  to  them  by  the  sight  of  their  eyes.  Not  only 
what  they  see  and  hear,  but  what  they  know  to  be  be- 
hind, enter  into  their  notion  of  a  place.  If  the  sea,  for 
instance,  lie  just  across  the  hills,  sea-thoughts  will  come 
to  them  at  intervals,  and  the  tenor  of  their  dreams  from 
time  to  time  will  suffer  a  sea-change.  And  so  here,  in 
this  forest,  a  knowledge  of  its  greatness  is  for  much  in 
the  effect  produced.  You  reckon  up  the  miles  that  lie 
between  you  and  intrusion.     You  may  walk  before  you 

174 


FOREST  NOTES 

all  day  long,  and  not  fear  to  touch  the  barrier  of  your 
Eden,  or  stumble  out  of  fairyland  into  the  land  of  gin 
and  steam-hammers.  And  there  is  an  old  tale  enhances 
for  the  imagination  the  grandeur  of  the  woods  of  France, 
and  secures  you  in  the  thought  of  your  seclusion. 
When  Charles  VI.  hunted  in  the  time  of  his  wild  boy- 
hood near  Senlis,  there  was  captured  an  old  stag,  hav- 
ing a  collar  of  bronze  about  his  neck,  and  these  words 
engraved  on  the  collar:  "Caesar  mihi  hoc  donavit."  It 
is  no  wonder  if  the  minds  of  men  were  moved  at  this 
occurrence  and  they  stood  aghast  to  find  themselves 
thus  touching  hands  with  forgotten  ages,  and  follow- 
ing an  antiquity  with  hound  and  horn.  And  even  for 
you,  it  is  scarcely  in  an  idle  curiosity  that  you  ponder 
how  many  centuries  this  stag  had  carried  its  free  antlers 
through  the  wood,  and  how  many  summers  and  win- 
ters had  shone  and  snowed  on  the  imperial  badge.  If 
the  extent  of  solemn  wood  could  thus  safeguard  a  tall 
stag  from  the  hunters'  hounds  and  horses,  might  not 
you  also  play  hide-and-seek,  in  these  groves,  with  all 
the  pangs  and  trepidations  of  man's  life,  and  elude 
Death,  the  mighty  hunter,  for  more  than  the  span  of 
human  years  ?  Here,  also,  crash  his  arrows ;  here,  in 
the  farthest  glade,  sounds  the  gallop  of  the  pale  horse. 
But  he  does  not  hunt  this  cover  with  all  his  hounds, 
for  the  game  is  thin  and  small:  and  if  you  were  but 
alert  and  wary,  if  you  lodged  ever  in  the  deepest  thickets, 
you  too  might  live  on  into  later  generations  and  aston- 
ish men  by  your  stalwart  age  and  the  trophies  of  an 
immemorial  success. 

For  the  forest  takes  away  from  you  all  excuse  to  die. 
There  is  nothing  here  to  cabin  or  thwart  your  free  de- 

'75 


NOTES  AND  ESSAYS 

sires.  Here  all  the  impudencies  of  the  brawling  world 
reach  you  no  more.  You  may  count  your  hours,  like 
Endymion,  by  the  strokes  of  the  lone  wood-cutter,  or 
by  the  progression  of  the  lights  and  shadows  and  the 
sun  wheeling  his  wide  circuit  through  the  naked 
heavens.  Here  shall  you  see  no  enemies  but  winter 
and  rough  weather.  And  if  a  pang  comes  to  you  at  all, 
it  will  be  a  pang  of  healthful  hunger.  All  the  puling 
sorrows,  all  the  carking  repentance,  all  this  talk  of  duty 
that  is  no  duty,  in  the  great  peace,  in  the  pure  daylight 
of  these  woods,  fall  away  from  you  like  a  garment. 
And  if  perchance  you  come  forth  upon  an  eminence, 
where  the  wind  blows  upon  you  large  and  fresh,  and 
the  pines  knock  their  long  stems  together,  like  an  un- 
gainly sort  of  puppets,  and  see  far  away  over  the  plain 
a  factory  chimney  defined  against  the  pale  horizon— it 
is  for  you,  as  for  the  staid  and  simple  peasant  when, 
with  his  plough,  he  upturns  old  arms  and  harness  from 
the  furrow  of  the  glebe.  Ay,  sure  enough,  there  was 
a  battle  there  in  the  old  times ;  and,  sure  enough,  there 
is  a  world  out  yonder  where  men  strive  together  with 
a  noise  of  oaths  and  weeping  and  clamorous  dispute. 
So  much  you  apprehend  by  an  athletic  act  of  the  ima- 
gination. A  faint  far-off  rumour  as  of  Merovingian 
wars ;  a  legend  as  of  some  dead  religion. 


176 


IX 

A   MOUNTAIN   TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

(y4  Fragment^  iSjp:  Originally  intended  to  serve  as  the  opening 
chapter  of  "  Travels  with  a  Donkejy  in  the  Cevennes.") 

Le  Monastier  is  the  chief  place  of  a  hilly  canton  in 
Haute  Loire,  the  ancient  Velay.  As  the  name  betokens, 
the  town  is  of  monastic  origin;  and  it  still  contains  a 
towered  bulk  of  monastery  and  a  church  of  some  archi- 
tectural pretensions,  the  seat  of  an  archpriest  and  sev- 
eral vicars.  It  stands  on  the  side  of  a  hill  above  the 
river  Gazeille,  about  fifteen  miles  from  Le  Puy,  up  a 
steep  road  where  the  wolves  sometimes  pursue  the 
diligence  in  winter.  Th-e  road,  which  is  bound  for 
Vivarais,  passes  through  the  town  from  end  to  end  in 
a  single  narrow  street;  there  you  may  see  the  fountain 
where  women  fill  their  pitchers;  there  also  some  old 
houses  with  carved  doors  and  pediments  and  ornamen- 
tal work  in  iron.  For  Monastier,  like  Maybole  in  Ayr- 
shire, was  a  sort  of  country  capital,  where  the  local 
aristocracy  had  their  town  mansions  for  the  winter; 
and  there  is  a  certain  baron  still  alive  and,  I  am  told, 
extremely  penitent,  who  found  means  to  ruin  himself 
by  high  living  in  this  village  on  the  hills.  He  certainly 
has  claims  to  be  considered  the  most  remarkable  spend- 

177 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

thrift  on  record.  How  he  set  about  it,  in  a  place  where 
there  are  no  luxuries  for  sale,  and  where  the  board  at 
the  best  inn  comes  to  little  more  than  a  shilling  a  day, 
is  a  problem  for  the  wise.  His  son,  ruined  as  the 
family  was,  went  as  far  as  Paris  to  sow  his  wild  oats  ; 
and  so  the  cases  of  father  and  son  mark  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  centralisation  in  France.  Not  until  the 
latter  had  got  into  the  train  was  the  work  of  Richelieu 
complete. 

It  is  a  people  of  lace-makers.  The  women  sit  in  the 
streets  by  groups  of  five  or  six;  and  the  noise  of  the 
bobbins  is  audible  from  one  group  to  another.  Now 
and  then  you  will  hear  one  woman  clattering  off  pray- 
ers for  the  edification  of  the  others  at  their  work.  They 
wear  gaudy  shawls,  white  caps  with  a  gay  ribbon  about 
the  head,  and  sometimes  a  black  felt  brigand  hat  above 
the  cap;  and  so  they  give  the  street  colour  and  bright- 
ness and  a  foreign  air.  Awhile  ago,  when  England 
largely  supplied  herself  from  this  district  with  the  lace 
called  torchon,  it  was  not  unusual  to  earn  five  francs  a 
day;  and  five  francs  in  Monastier  is  worth  a  pound  in 
London.  Now,  from  a  change  in  the  market,  it  takes 
a  clever  and  industrious  workwoman  to  earn  from  three 
to  four  in  the  week,  or  less  than  an  eighth  of  what  she 
made  easily  a  few  years  ago.  The  tide  of  prosperity 
came  and  went,  as  with  our  northern  pitmen,  and  left 
nobody  the  richer.  The  women  bravely  squandered 
their  gains,  kept  the  men  in  idleness,  and  gave  them- 
selves up,  as  I  was  told,  to  sweethearting  and  a  merry 
life.  From  week's  end  to  week's  end  it  was  one  con- 
tinuous gala  in  Monastier;  people  spent  the  day  in  the 
wine-shops,  and  the  drum  or  the  bagpipes  led  on  the 

178 


A   MOUNTAIN   TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

bourrees  up  to  ten  at  night.  Now  these  dancing  days 
are  over.  "//  ny  a  plus  de  jeunesse,"  said  Victor  the 
garcon.  I  hear  of  no  great  advance  in  what  are  thought 
the  essentials  of  morality;  but  the  bourreey  with  its 
rambling,  sweet,  interminable  music,  and  alert  and  rus- 
tic figures,  has  fallen  into  disuse,  and  is  mostly  remem- 
bered as  a  custom  of  the  past.  Only  on  the  occasion 
of  the  fair  shall  you  hear  a  drum  discreetly  rattling  in  a 
wine-shop  or  perhaps  one  of  the  company  singing  the 
measure  while  the  others  dance.  I  am  sorry  at  the 
change,  and  marvel  once  more  at  the  complicated 
scheme  of  things  upon  this  earth,  and  how  a  turn  of 
fashion  in  England  can  silence  so  much  mountain  mer- 
riment in  France.  The  lace-makers  themselves  have 
not  entirely  forgiven  our  countrywomen;  and  I  think 
they  take  a  special  pleasure  in  the  legend  of  the  northern 
quarter  of  the  town,  called  L'Anglade,  because  there  the 
English  free-lances  were  arrested  and  driven  back  by  the 
potency  of  a  little  Virgin  Mary  on  the  wall. 

From  time  to  time  a  market  is  held,  and  the  town 
has  a  season  of  revival;  cattle  and  pigs  are  stabled  in 
the  streets;  and  pickpockets  have  been  known  to  come 
all  the  way  from  Lyons  for  the  occasion.  Every  Sun- 
day the  country  folk  throng  in  with  daylight  to  buy 
apples,  to  attend  mass,  and  to  visit  one  of  the  wine- 
shops, of  which  there  are  no  fewer  than  fifty  in  this 
little  town.  Sunday  wear  for  the  men  is  a  green  tail- 
coat of  some  coarse  sort  of  drugget,  and  usually  a  com- 
plete suit  to  match.  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  such 
degrading  raiment.  Here  it  clings,  there  bulges;  and 
the  human  body,  with  its  agreeable  and  lively  lines,  is 
turned  into  a  mockery  and  laughing-stock.     Another 

179 


NOTES  AND    ESSAYS 

piece  of  Sunday  business  with  the  peasants  is  to  take 
their  ailments  to  the  chemist  for  advice.  It  is  as  much 
a  matter  for  Sunday  as  church-going.  I  have  seen  a 
woman  who  had  been  unable  to  speak  since  the  Mon- 
day before,  wheezing,  catching  her  breath,  endlessly 
and  painfully  coughing;  and  yet  she  had  waited  up- 
wards of  a  hundred  hours  before  coming  to  seek  help, 
and  had  the  week  been  twice  as  long,  she  would  have 
waited  still.  There  was  a  canonical  day  for  consulta- 
tion; such  was  the  ancestral  habit,  to  which  a  respec- 
table lady  must  study  to  conform. 

Two  conveyances  go  daily  to  Le  Puy,  but  they  rival 
each  other  in  polite  concessions  rather  than  in  speed. 
Each  will  wait  an  hour  or  two  hours  cheerfully  while 
an  old  lady  does  her  marketing  or  a  gentleman  fmishes 
the  papers  in  a  cafe.  The  Courrier  (such  is  the  name 
of  one)  should  leave  Le  Puy  by  two  in  the  afternoon 
on  the  return  voyage,  and  arrive  at  Monastier  in  good 
time  for  a  six-o'clock  dinner.  But  the  driver  dares  not 
disoblige  his  customers.  He  will  postpone  his  depar- 
ture again  and  again,  hour  after  hour;  and  I  have 
known  the  sun  to  go  down  on  his  delay.  These  purely 
personal  favours,  this  consideration  of  men's  f-^ncies, 
rather  than  the  hands  of  a  mechanical  clock,  as  mark- 
ing the  advance  of  the  abstraction,  time,  makes  a  more 
humorous  business  of  stage-coaching  than  we  are  used 
to  see  it. 

As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  one  swelling  line  of  hill- 
top rises  and  falls  behind  another;  and  if  you  climb  an 
eminence,  it  is  only  to  see  new  and  farther  ranges  be- 
hind these.  Many  little  rivers  run  from  all  sides  in 
cliffy  valleys ;  and  one  of  them,  a  few  miles  from  Mo 

i8o 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

nastier,  bears  the  great  name  of  Loire.  The  mean  level 
of  the  country  is  a  little  more  than  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  which  makes  the  atmosphere  propor- 
tionally brisk  and  wholesome.  There  is  little  timber 
except  pines,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  country  lies  in 
moorland  pasture.  The  country  is  wild  and  tumbled 
rather  than  commanding;  an  upland  rather  than  a 
mountain  district;  and  the  most  striking  as  well  as  the 
most  agreeable  scenery  lies  low  beside  the  rivers. 
There,  indeed,  you  will  find  many  corners  that  take  the 
fancy ;  such  as  made  the  English  noble  choose  his  grave 
by  a  Swiss  streamlet,  where  nature  is  at  her  freshest, 
and  looks  as  young  as  on  the  seventh  morning.  Such 
a  place  is  the  course  of  the  Gazeille,  where  it  waters  the 
common  of  Monastier  and  thence  downwards  till  it  joins 
the  Loire;  a  place  to  hear  birds  singing;  a  place  for 
lovers  to  frequent.  The  name  of  the  river  was  perhaps 
suggested  by  the  sound  of  its  passage  over  the  stones ; 
for  it  is  a  great  warbler,  and  at  night,  after  I  was  in  bed 
at  Monastier,  I  could  hear  it  go  singing  down  the  val- 
ley till  I  fell  asleep. 

On  the  whole,  this  is  a  Scottish  landscape,  although 
not  so  noble  as  the  best  in  Scotland;  and  by  an  odd 
coincidence,  the  population  is,  in  its  way,  as  Scottish 
as  the  country.  They  have  abrupt,  uncouth,  Fifeshire 
manners,  and  accost  you,  as  if  you  were  trespassing, 
with  an  "  OiCst-ce  que  vous  allei? "  only  translatable 
into  the  Lowland  "  Whaur  ye  gaun  ?  "  They  keep  the 
Scottish  Sabbath.  There  is  no  labour  done  on  that  day 
but  to  drive  in  and  out  the  various  pigs  and  sheep  and 
cattle  that  make  so  pleasant  a  tinkling  in  the  meadows. 
The  lace-makers  have  disappeared  from  the  street.     Not 

181 


NOTES   AND   ESSAYS 

to  attend  mass  would  involve  social  degradation;  and 
you  may  find  people  reading  Sunday  books,  in  particu- 
lar a  sort  of  Catholic  Monthly  Visitor  on  the  doings  of 
Our  Lady  of  Lourdes.  I  remember  one  Sunday,  when 
I  was  walking  in  the  country,  that  I  fell  on  a  hamlet 
and  found  all  the  inhabitants,  from  the  patriarch  to  the 
baby,  gathered  in  the  shadow  of  a  gable  at  prayer. 
One  strapping  lass  stood  with  her  back  to  the  wall  and 
did  the  solo  part,  the  rest  chiming  in  devoutly.  Not 
far  off,  a  lad  lay  flat  on  his  face  asleep  among  some 
straw,  to  represent  the  worldly  element. 

Again,  this  people  is  eager  to  proselytise;  and  the 
postmaster's  daughter  used  to  argue  with  me  by  the 
half-hour  about  my  heresy,  until  she  grew  quite  flushed. 
I  have  heard  the  reverse  process  going  on  between  a 
Scotswoman  and  a  French  girl ;  and  the  arguments  in 
the  two  cases  were  identical.  Each  apostle  based  her 
claim  on  the  superior  virtue  and  attainments  of  her 
clergy,  and  clenched  the  business  with  a  threat  of  hell- 
fire.  ''Pas  bong  pritres  ici,''  said  the  Presbyterian, 
''bong  pretres  en  Ecosse.''  And  the  postmaster's 
daughter,  taking  up  the  same  weapon,  plied  me,  so 
to  speak,  with  the  butt  of  it  instead  of  the  bayonet. 
We  are  a  hopeful  race,  it  seems,  and  easily  persuaded 
for  our  good.  One  cheerful  circumstance  I  note  in 
these  guerilla  missions,  that  each  side  relies  on  hell,  and 
Protestant  and  Catholic  alike  address  themselves  to  a 
supposed  misgiving  in  their  adversary's  heart.  And  I 
call  it  cheerful,  for  faith  is  a  more  supporting  quality 
than  imagination. 

Here,  as  in  Scotland,  many  peasant  families  boast  a 
son  in  holy  orders.     And  here  also,  the  young  men 

182 


A   MOUNTAIN  TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

have  a  tendency  to  emigrate.  It  is  certainly  not  poverty 
that  drives  them  to  the  great  cities  or  across  the  seas, 
for  many  peasant  families,  I  was  told,  have  a  fortune 
of  at  least  40,000  francs.  The  lads  go  forth  pricked 
with  the  spirit  of  adventure  and  the  desire  to  rise  in  life, 
and  leave  their  homespun  elders  grumbling  and  won- 
dering over  the  event.  Once,  at  a  village  called  Laus- 
sonne,  I  met  one  of  these  disappointed  parents:  a  drake 
who  had  fathered  a  wild  swan  and  seen  it  take  wing 
and  disappear.  The  wild  swan  in  question  was  now 
an  apothecary  in  Brazil.  He  had  flown  by  way  of 
Bordeaux,  and  first  landed  in  America,  bareheaded  and 
barefoot,  and  with  a  single  halfpenny  in  his  pocket. 
And  now  he  was  an  apothecary!  Such  a  wonderful 
thing  is  an  adventurous  life!  I  thought  he  might  as 
well  have  stayed  at  home,-  but  you  never  can  tell 
wherein  a  man's  life  consists,  nor  in  what  he  sets  his 
pleasure:  one  to  drink,  another  to  marry,  a  third  to 
write  scurrilous  articles  and  be  repeatedly  caned  in 
public,  and  now  this  fourth,  perhaps,  to  be  an  apothe- 
cary in  Brazil.  As  for  his  old  father,  he  could  conceive 
no  reason  for  the  lad's  behaviour.  *'  I  had  always  bread 
for  him,"  he  said;  "he  ran  away  to  annoy  me.  He 
loved  to  annoy  me.  He  had  no  gratitude."  But  at 
heart  h^  was  swelling  with  pride  over  his  travelled  off- 
spring, and  he  produced  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket, 
where,  as  he  said,  it  was  rotting,  a  mere  lump  of  paper 
rags,  and  waved  it  gloriously  in  the  air.  "  This  comes 
from  America, "  he  cried,  "  six  thousand  leagues  away ! " 
^nd  the  wine-shop  audience  looked  upon  it  with  a 
certain  thrill. 
I  soon  became  a  popular  figure,  and  was  known  for 
183 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

miles  in  the  country.  Ou'st-ce  que  vous  allei?  was 
changed  for  me  into  Quoi,  vous  rentre^  au  Monastier 
ce  soir?  and  in  the  town  itself  every  urchin  seemed  to 
know  my  name,  although  no  living  creature  could 
pronounce  it.  There  was  one  particular  group  of  lace- 
makers  who  brought  out  a  chair  for  me  whenever  I 
went  by,  and  detained  me  from  my  walk  to  gossip. 
They  were  filled  with  curiosity  about  England,  its 
language,  its  religion,  the  dress  of  the  women,  and 
were  never  weary  of  seeing  the  Queen's  head  on  Eng- 
lish postage-stamps  or  seeking  for  French  words  in 
English  Journals.  The  language,  in  particular,  filled 
them  with  surprise. 

"Do  they  speak  patois  in  England?"  I  was  once 
asked ;  and  when  I  told  them  not,  "  Ah,  then,  French  ?  " 
said  they. 

"No,  no,*'  I  said,  "not  French." 

"Then,"  they  concluded,  "they  s^tzk patois.*' 

You  must  obviously  either  speak  French  or  patois. 
Talk  of  the  force  of  logic— here  it  was  in  all  its  weak- 
ness. I  gave  up  the  point,  but  proceeding  to  give  illus- 
trations of  my  native  jargon,  I  was  met  with  a  new 
mortification.  Of  all  patois  they  declared  that  mine 
was  the  most  preposterous  and  the  most  jocose  in 
sound.  At  each  new  word  there  was  a  new  explosion 
of  laughter,  and  some  of  the  younger  ones  were  glad 
to  rise  from  their  chairs  and  stamp  about  the  street  in 
ecstasy;  and  I  looked  on  upon  their  mirth  in  a  faint 
and  slightly  disagreeable  bewilderment.  "Bread," 
which  sounds  a  commonplace,  plain-sailing  monosyl- 
lable in  England,  was  the  word  that  most  delighted 
these  good  ladies  of  Monastier;   it  seemed  to  them 

184 


A  MOUNTAIN  TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

frolicsome  and  racy,  like  a  page  of  Pickwick;  and  they 
all  got  it  carefully  by  heart,  as  a  stand-by,  I  presume, 
for  winter  evenings.  I  have  tried  it  since  then  with 
every  sort  of  accent  and  inflection,  but  I  seem  to  lack 
the  sense  of  humour. 

They  were  of  all  ages:  children  at  their  first  web 
of  lace,  a  stripling  girl  with  a  bashful  but  encouraging 
play  of  eyes,  solid  married  women,  and  grandmothers, 
some  on  the  top  of  their  age  and  some  falling  towards 
decrepitude.  One  and  all  were  pleasant  and  natural, 
ready  to  laugh  and  ready  with  a  certain  quiet  solem- 
nity when  that  was  called  for  by  the  subject  of  our 
talk.  Life,  since  the  fall  in  wages,  had  begun  to  ap- 
pear to  them  with  a  more  serious  air.  The  stripling 
girl  would  sometimes  laugh  at  me  in  a  provocative  and 
not  unadmiring  manner,  if  I  judge  aright;  and  one  of 
the  grandmothers,  who  was  my  great  friend  of  the 
party,  gave  me  many  a  sharp  word  of  judgment  on 
my  sketches,  my  heresy,  or  even  my  arguments,  and 
gave  them  with  a  wry  mouth  and  a  humorous  twinkle 
in  her  eye  that  were  eminently  Scottish.  But  the  rest 
used  me  with  a  certain  reverence,  as  something  come 
from  afar  and  not  entirely  human.  Nothing  would 
put  them  at  their  ease  but  the  irresistible  gaiety  of  my 
native  tongue.  Between  the  old  lady  and  myself  I 
think  there  was  a  real  attachment.  She  was  never 
weary  of  sitting  to  me  for  her  portrait,  in  her  best  cap 
and  brigand  hat,  and  with  all  her  wrinkles  tidily  com- 
posed, and  though  she  never  failed  to  repudiate  the 
result,  she  would  always  insist  upon  another  trial.  It 
was  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  her  sitting  in  judgment 
over  the  last.     "No,  no,"  she  would  say,  "that  is  not 

185 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

it.  I  am  old,  to  be  sure,  but  I  am  better-looking  thart 
that.  We  must  try  again."  When  I  was  about  to 
leave  she  bade  me  good-bye  for  this  life  in  a  somewhat 
touching  manner.  We  should  not  meet  again,  she  said ; 
it  was  a  long  farewell,  and  she  was  sorry.  But  life  is 
so  full  of  crooks,  old  lady,  that  who  knows  .^  I  have 
said  good-bye  to  people  for  greater  distances  and  times, 
and,  please  God,  I  mean  to  see  them  yet  again. 

One  thing  was  notable  about  these  women,  from  the 
youngest  to  the  oldest,  and  with  hardly  an  exception. 
In  spite  of  their  piety,  they  could  twang  off  an  oath 
with  Sir  Toby  Belch  in  person.  There  was  nothing  so 
high  or  so  low,  in  heaven  or  earth  or  in  the  human 
body,  but  a  woman  of  this  neighbourhood  would  whip 
out  the  name  of  it,  fair  and  square,  by  way  of  conver- 
sational adornment.  My  landlady,  who  was  pretty 
and  young,  dressed  like  a  lady  and  avoided  patois  like 
a  weakness,  commonly  addressed  her  child  in  the  lan- 
guage of  a  drunken  bully.  And  of  all  the  swearers  that 
I  ever  heard,  commend  me  to  an  old  lady  in  Gondet,  a 
village  of  the  Loire.  I  was  making  a  sketch,  and  her 
curse  was  not  yet  ended  when  I  had  finished  it  and 
took  my  departure.  It  is  true  she  had  a  right  to  be 
angry;  for  here  was  her  son,  a  hulking  fellow,  visibly 
the  worse  for  drink  before  the  day  was  well  begun. 
But  it  was  strange  to  hear  her  unwearying  flow  of 
oaths  and  obscenities,  endless  like  a  river,  and  now  and 
then  rising  to  a  passionate  shrillness,  in  the  clear  and 
silent  air  of  the  morning.  In  city  slums,  the  thing 
might  have  passed  unnoticed;  but  in  a  country  valley, 
and  from  a  plain  and  honest  countrywoman,  this  beast- 
liness of  speech  surprised  the  ear. 

i86 


A  MOUNTAIN   TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

The  Conductor,  as  he  is  called,  of  Roads  and  Bridges 
was  my  principal  companion.  He  was  generally  intel- 
ligent, and  could  have  spoken  more  or  less  falsetto  on 
any  of  the  trite  topics ;  but  it  was  his  specialty  to  have 
a  generous  taste  in  eating.  This  was  what  was  most 
indigenous  in  the  man;  it  was  here  he  was  an  artist; 
and  I  found  in  his  company  what  I  had  long  suspected, 
that  enthusiasm  and  special  knowledge  are  the  great 
social  qualities,  and  what  they  are  about,  whether 
white  sauce  or  Shakespeare's  plays,  an  altogether  sec- 
ondary question. 

1  used  to  accompany  the  Conductor  on  his  profes- 
sional rounds,  and  grew  to  believe  myself  an  expert  in 
the  business.  I  thought  I  could  make  an  entry  in  a 
stone-breaker's  time-book,  or  order  manure  off  the  way- 
side with  any  living  engineer  in  France.  Gondet  was 
one  of  the  places  we  visited  together;  and  Laussonne, 
where  I  met  the  apothecary's  father,  was  another. 
There,  at  Laussonne,  George  Sand  spent  a  day  while 
she  was  gathering  materials  for  the  Marquis  de  Villemer; 
and  I  have  spoken  with  an  old  man,  who  was  then  a 
child  running  about  the  inn  kitchen,  and  who  still  re- 
members her  with  a  sort  of  reverence.  It  appears  that 
he  spoke  French  imperfectly;  for  this  reason  George 
Sand  chose  him  for  companion,  and  whenever  he  let 
slip  a  broad  and  picturesque  phrase  m  patois,  she  would 
make  him  repeat  it  again  and  again  till  it  was  graven 
in  her  memory.  The  word  for  a  frog  particularly 
pleased  her  fancy;  and  it  would  be  curious  to  know  if 
she  afterwards  employed  it  in  her  works.  The  peas- 
ants, who  knew  nothing  of  letters  and  had  never  so 
much  as  heard  of  local  colour,  could  not  explain  her 

187 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

chattering  with  this  backward  child ;  and  to  them  she 
seemed  a  very  homely  lady  and  far  from  beautiful :  the 
most  famous  man-killer  of  the  age  appealed  so  little  to 
Velaisian  swineherds! 

On  my  first  engineering  excursion,  which  lay  up  by 
Crouzials  towards  Mount  Mezenc  and  the  borders  of 
Ardeche,  I  began  an  improving  acquaintance  with  the 
foreman  road-mender.  He  was  in  great  glee  at  having 
me  with  him,  passed  me  off  among  his  subalterns  as 
the  supervising  engineer,  and  insisted  on  what  he  called 
*'  the  gallantry  "  of  paying  for  my  breakfast  in  a  road- 
side wine-shop.  On  the  whole,  he  was  a  man  of  great 
weather-wisdom,  some  spirits,  and  a  social  temper. 
But  I  am  afraid  he  was  superstitious.  When  he  was 
nine  years  old,  he  had  seen  one  night  a  company  of 
bourgeois  et  dames  qui  faisaient  la  manege  avec  des 
chaises,  and  concluded  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
witches'  Sabbath.  I  suppose,  but  venture  with  timidity 
on  the  suggestion,  that  this  may  have  been  a  romantic 
and  nocturnal  picnic  party.  Again,  coming  from  Pra- 
delles  with  his  brother,  they  saw  a  great  empty  cart 
drawn  by  six  enormous  horses  before  them  on  the  road. 
The  driver  cried  aloud  and  filled  the  mountains  with 
the  cracking  of  his  whip.  He  never  seemed  to  go 
faster  than  a  walk,  yet  it  was  impossible  to  overtake 
him;  and  at  length,  at  the  corner  of  a  hill,  the  whole 
equipage  disappeared  bodily  into  the  night.  At  the 
time,  people  said  it  was  the  devil  qui  s'amusait  a 
faire  ga, 

1  suggested  there  was  nothing  more  likely,  as  he 
must  have  some  amusement. 

The  foreman  said  it  was  odd,  but  there  was  less  of 
188 


A  MOUNTAIN   TOWN   IN   FRANCE 

that  sort  of  thing  than  formerly.  "  Cest  difficile,''  he 
added,  ''a  expltquer,'' 

When  we  were  well  up  on  the  moors  and  the  Con- 
ductor was  trying  some  road-metal  with  the  gauge— 

"  Hark!  "  said  the  foreman,  "  do  you  hear  nothing  ?  '* 

We  listened,  and  the  wind,  which  was  blowing  chilly 
out  of  the  east,  brought  a  faint,  tangled  jangling  to  our 
ears. 

"  It  is  the  flocks  of  Vivarais,"  said  he. 

For  every  summer,  the  flocks  out  of  all  Ardeche  are 
brought  up  to  pasture  on  these  grassy  plateaux. 

Here  and  there  a  little  private  flock  was  being  tended 
by  a  girl,  one  spinning  with  a  distaff,  another  seated  on 
a  wall  and  intently  making  lace.  This  last,  when  we 
addressed  her,  leaped  up  in  a  panic  and  put  out  her 
arms,  like  a  person  swimming,  to  keep  us  at  a  distance, 
and  it  was  some  seconds  before  we  could  persuade  her 
of  the  honesty  of  our  intentions. 

The  Conductor  told  me  of  another  herdswoman  from 
whom  he  had  once  asked  his  road  while  he  was  yet 
new  to  the  country,  and  who  fled  from  him,  driving 
her  beasts  before  her,  until  he  had  given  up  the  in- 
formation in  despair.  A  tale  of  old  lawlessness  may 
yet  be  read  in  these  uncouth  timidities. 

The  winter  in  these  uplands  is  a  dangerous  and 
melancholy  time.  Houses  are  snowed  up,  and  way- 
farers lost  in  a  flurry  within  hail  of  their  own  fireside. 
No  man  ventures  abroad  without  meat  and  a  bottle  of 
wine,  which  he  replenishes  at  every  wine-shop;  and 
even  thus  equipped  he  takes  the  road  with  terror.  All 
day  the  family  sits  about  the  fire  in  a  foul  and  airless 
hovel,  and  equally  without  work  or  diversion.     The 

189 


NOTES  AND   ESSAYS 

father  may  carve  a  rude  piece  of  furniture,  but  that  is 
all  that  will  be  done  until  the  spring  sets  in  again,  and 
along  with  it  the  labours  of  the  field.  It  is  not  for 
nothing  that  you  find  a  clock  in  the  meanest  of  these 
mountain  habitations.  A  clock  and  an  almanac,  you 
would  fancy,  were  indispensable  in  such  a  life.  .  .  . 


190 


CRITICISMS 


Originally  published : 

I.   Fortnightly  Review,  June,  1 8^4, 

II.  Academy,  April  i^,  iSyd. 

III.  Magazine  of  Art,  April,  1882, 


CRITICISMS 


LORD  LYTTON  S 

IT  seems  as  if  Lord  Lytton,  in  this  new  book  of  his, 
had  found  the  form  most  natural  to  his  talent.  In 
some  ways,  indeed,  it  may  be  held  inferior  to  "  Chroni- 
cles and  Characters  " ;  we  look  in  vain  for  anything  like 
the  terrible  intensity  of  the  night-scene  in  "Irene,"  or 
for  any  such  passages  of  massive  and  memorable  writ- 
ing as  appeared,  here  and  there,  in  the  earlier  work, 
and  made  it  not  altogether  unworthy  of  its  model, 
Hugo's  "  Legend  of  the  Ages."  But  it  becomes  evident, 
on  the  most  hasty  retrospect,  that  this  earlier  work 
was  a  step  on  the  way  towards  the  later.  It  seems  as 
if  the  author  had  been  feeling  about  for  his  definite 
medium,  and  was  already,  in  the  language  of  the  child's 
game,  growing  hot.  There  are  many  pieces  in  "  Chroni- 
cles and  Characters  "  that  might  be  detached  from  their 
original  setting,  and  embodied,  as  they  stand,  among 
the  "Fables  in  Song." 

For  the  term  Fable  is  not  very  easy  to  define  rigor- 
ously.    In  the  most  typical  form  some  moral  precept  is 

^93 


CRITICISMS 

set  forth  by  means  of  a  conception  purely  fantastic, 
and  usually  somewhat  trivial  into  the  bargain ;  there  is 
something  playful  about  it,  that  will  not  support  a  very 
exacting  criticism,  and  the  lesson  must  be  apprehended 
by  the  fancy  at  half  a  hint.  Such  is  the  great  mass  of 
the  old  stories  of  wise  animals  or  foolish  men  that  have 
amused  our  childhood.  But  we  should  expect  the  fable, 
in  company  with  other  and  more  important  literary 
forms,  to  be  more  and  more  loosely,  or  at  least  largely, 
comprehended  as  time  went  on,  and  so  to  degenerate 
in  conception  from  this  original  type.  That  depended 
for  much  of  its  piquancy  on  the  very  fact  that  it  was 
fantastic :  the  point  of  the  thing  lay  in  a  sort  of  humor- 
ous inappropriateness ;  and  it  is  natural  enough  that 
pleasantry  of  this  description  should  become  less  com- 
mon, as  men  learn  to  suspect  some  serious  analogy 
underneath.  Thus  a  comical  story  of  an  ape  touches  us 
quite  differently  after  the  proposition  of  Mr.  Darwin's 
theory.  Moreover  there  lay,  perhaps,  at  the  bottom  of 
this  primitive  sort  of  fable,  a  humanity,  a  tenderness  of 
rough  truths ;  so  that  at  the  end  of  some  story,  in  which 
vice  or  folly  had  met  with  its  destined  punishment, 
the  fabulist  might  be  able  to  assure  his  auditors,  as  we 
have  often  to  assure  tearful  children  on  the  like  occa- 
sions, that  they  may  dry  their  eyes,  for  none  of  it  was 
true. 

But  this  benefit  of  fiction  becomes  lost  with  more 
sophisticated  hearers  and  authors:  a  man  is  no  longer 
the  dupe  of  his  own  artifice,  and  cannot  deal  playfully 
with  truths  that  are  a  matter  of  bitter  concern  to  him  in 
his  hfe.  And  hence,  in  the  progressive  centralisation 
of  modern  thought,  we  should  expect  the  old  form  of 

194 


LORD   LYTTON'S   "FABLES   IN   SONG" 

fable  to  fall  gradually  into  desuetude,  and  be  gradually 
succeeded  by  another,  which  is  a  fable  in  aK  points 
except  that  it  is  not  altogether  fabulous.  And  this  new 
form,  such  as  we  should  expect,  and  such  as  we  do 
indeed  fmd,  still  presents  the  essential  character  of 
brevity ;  as  in  any  other  fable  also,  there  is,  underlying 
and  animating  the  brief  action,  a  moral  idea ;  and  as  in 
any  other  fable,  the  object  is  to  bring  this  home  to  the 
reader  through  the  intellect  rather  than  through  the 
feelings ;  so  that,  without  being  very  deeply  moved  or 
interested  by  the  characters  of  the  piece,  we  should  recog- 
nise vividly  the  hinges  on  which  the  little  plot  revolves. 
But  the  fabulist  now  seeks  analogies  where  before  he 
merely  sought  humorous  situations.  There  will  be  now 
a  logical  nexus  between  the  moral  expressed  and  the 
machinery  employed  to  express  it.  The  machinery,  in 
fact,  as  this  change  is  developed,  becomes  less  and  less 
fabulous.  We  find  ourselves  in  presence  of  quite  a 
serious,  if  quite  a  miniature  division  of  creative  litera- 
ture; and  sometimes  we  have  the  lesson  embodied  in 
a  sober,  every-day  narration,  as  in  the  parables  of  the 
New  Testament,  and  sometimes  merely  the  statement 
or,  at  most,  the  collocation  of  significant  facts  in  life, 
the  reader  being  left  to  resolve  for  himself  the  vague, 
troublesome,  and  not  yet  definitely  moral  sentiment 
which  has  been  thus  created.  And  step  by  step  with 
the  development  of  this  change,  yet  another  is  devel- 
oped: the  moral  tends  to  become  more  indeterminate 
and  large.  It  ceases  to  be  possible  to  append  it,  in  a 
tag,  to  the  bottom  of  the  piece,  as  one  might  write  the 
name  below  a  caricature ;  and  the  fable  begins  to  take 
rank  with  all  other  forms  of  creative  literature,  as  some- 

195 


CRITICISMS 

thing  too  ambitious,  in  spite  of  its  miniature  dimensions, 
to  be  resumed  in  any  succinct  formula  without  the  loss 
of  all  that  is  deepest  and  most  suggestive  in  it. 

Now  it  is  in  this  widest  sense  that  Lord  Lytton 
understands  the  term;  there  are  examples  in  his  two 
pleasant  volumes  of  all  the  forms  already  mentioned, 
and  even  of  another  which  can  only  be  admitted  among 
fables  by  the  utmost  possible  leniency  of  construction. 
"Composure,"  "Et  Caetera,"  and  several  more,  are 
merely  similes  poetically  elaborated.  So,  too,  is  the 
pathetic  story  of  the  grandfather  and  grandchild :  the 
child,  having  treasured  away  an  icicle  and  forgotten  it 
for  ten  minutes,  comes  back  to  find  it  already  nearly 
melted,  and  no  longer  beautiful :  at  the  same  time,  the 
grandfather  has  just  remembered  and  taken  out  a  bun- 
dle of  love-letters,  which  he  too  had  stored  away  in 
years  gone  by,  and  then  long  neglected ;  and,  behold ! 
the  letters  are  as  faded  and  sorrowfully  disappointing 
as  the  icicle.  This  is  merely  a  simile  poetically  worked 
out;  and  yet  it  is  in  such  as  these,  and  some  others,  to 
be  mentioned  further  on,  that  the  author  seems  at  his 
best.  Wherever  he  has  really  written  after  the  old 
model,  there  is  something  to  be  deprecated :  in  spite  of 
all  the  spirit  and  freshness,  in  spite  of  his  happy  as- 
sumption of  that  cheerful  acceptation  of  things  as  they 
are,  which,  rightly  or  wrongly,  we  come  to  attribute  to 
the  ideal  fabulist,  there  is  ever  a  sense  as  of  something 
a  little  out  of  place.  A  form  of  literature  so  very  in- 
nocent and  primitive  looks  a  little  overwritten  in  Lord 
Lytton's  conscious  and  highly  coloured  style.  It  may 
be  bad  taste,  but  sometimes  we  should  prefer  a  few 
sentences  of  plain  prose  narration,  and  a  little  Bewick 

196 


LORD   LYTTON'S   "FABLES   IN   SONG" 

by  way  of  tail-piece.  So  that  it  is  not  among  those 
fables  that  conform  most  nearly  to  the  old  model,  but 
one  had  nearly  said  among  those  that  most  widely  differ 
from  it,  that  we  fmd  the  most  satisfactory  examples  of 
the  author's  manner. 

In  the  mere  matter  of  ingenuity,  the  metaphysical 
fables  are  the  most  remarkable;  such  as  that  of  the 
windmill  who  imagined  that  it  was  he  who  raised  the 
wind ;  or  that  of  the  grocer's  balance  ("  Cogito  ergo 
sum  ")  who  considered  himself  endowed  with  free-will, 
reason,  and  an  infallible  practical  judgment;  until,  one 
fine  day,  the  police  make  a  descent  upon  the  shop,  and 
find  the  weights  false  and  the  scales  unequal;  and  the 
whole  thing  is  broken  up  for  old  iron.  Capital  fables, 
also,  in  the  same  ironical  spirit,  are  "  Prometheus  Un- 
bound," the  tale  of  the  vainglory ing  of  a  champagne- 
cork,  and  "  Teleology,"  where  a  nettle  justifies  the  ways 
of  God  to  nettles  while  all  goes  well  with  it,  and,  upon 
a  change  of  luck,  promptly  changes  its  divinity. 

In  all  these  there  is  still  plenty  of  the  fabulous  if  you 
will,  although,  even  here,  there  may  be  two  opinions 
possible;  but  there  is  another  group,  of  an  order  of 
merit  perhaps  still  higher,  where  we  look  in  vain  for 
any  such  playful  liberties  with  Nature.  Thus  we  have 
"Conservation  of  Force";  where  a  musician,  thinking 
of  a  certain  picture,  improvises  in  the  twilight;  a  poet, 
hearing  the  music,  goes  home  inspired,  and  writes  a 
poem ;  and  then  a  painter,  under  the  influence  of  this 
poem,  paints  another  picture,  thus  lineally  descended 
from  the  first.  This  is  fiction,  but  not  what  we  have 
been  used  to  call  fable.  We  miss  the  incredible  ele- 
ment, the  point  of  audacity  with  which  the  fabulist  was 

>97 


CRITICISMS 

wont  to  mock  at  his  readers.  And  still  more  so  is  this 
the  case  with  others.  "  The  Horse  and  the  Fly  "  states 
one  of  the  unanswerable  problems  of  iife  in  quite  a 
realistic  and  straightforward  way.  A  fly  startles  a  cab- 
horse,  the  coach  is  overset;  a  newly  married  pair  within 
and  the  driver,  a  man  with  a  wife  and  family,  are  all 
killed.  The  horse  continues  to  gallop  off  in  the  loose 
traces,  and  ends  the  tragedy  by  running  over  an  only 
child ;  and  there  is  some  little  pathetic  detail  here  intro- 
duced in  the  telling,  that  makes  the  reader's  indignation 
very  white-hot  against  some  one.  It  remains  to  be 
seen  who  that  some  one  is  to  be :  the  fly  ?  Nay,  but,  on 
closer  inspection,  it  appears  that  the  fly,  actuated  by 
maternal  instinct,  was  only  seeking  a  place  for  her  eggs : 
is  maternal  instinct,  then,  "  sole  author  of  these  mis- 
chiefs all "  ?  "  Who  's  in  the  Right  ?  "  one  of  the  best 
fables  in  the  book,  is  somewhat  in  the  same  vein. 
After  a  battle  has  been  won,  a  group  of  officers  assem- 
ble inside  a  battery,  and  debate  together  who  should 
have  the  honour  of  the  success :  the  Prince,  the  general 
staff,  the  cavalry,  the  engineer  who  posted  the  battery 
in  which  they  then  stand  talking,  are  successively 
named :  the  sergeant,  who  pointed  the  guns,  sneers  to 
himself  at  the  mention  of  the  engineer;  and,  close  by, 
the  gunner,  who  had  applied  the  match,  passes  away 
with  a  smile  of  triumph,  since  it  was  through  his  hand 
that  the  victorious  blow  had  been  dealt.  Meanwhile, 
the  cannon  claims  the  honour  over  the  gunner;  the 
cannon-ball,  who  actually  goes  forth  on  the  dread  mis- 
sion, claims  it  over  the  cannon,  who  remains  idly  be- 
hind; the  powder  reminds  the  cannon-ball  that,  but  for 
him,  it  would  still  be  lying  on  the  arsenal  floor;  and  the 

198 


LORD   LYTTON'S   "FABLES  IN  SONG" 

match  caps  the  discussion:  powder,  cannon-ball,  and 
cannon  would  be  all  equally  vain  and  ineffectual  with- 
out fire.  Just  then  there  comes  on  a  shower  of  rain, 
which  wets  the  powder  and  puts  out  the  match,  and 
completes  this  lesson  of  dependence,  by  indicating  the 
negative  conditions  which  are  as  necessary  for  any 
effect,  in  their  absence,  as  is  the  presence  of  this  great 
fraternity  of  positive  conditions,  not  any  one  of  which 
can  claim  priority  over  any  other.  But  the  fable  does 
not  end  here,  as  perhaps,  in  all  logical  strictness,  it 
should.  It  wanders  off  into  a  discussion  as  to  which 
is  the  truer  greatness,  that  of  the  vanquished  fire  or  that 
of  the  victorious  rain.  And  the  speech  of  the  rain  is 
charming: 

**  Lo,  with  my  little  drops  I  bless  again 
And  beautify  the  fields  which  thou  didst  blast! 
Rend,  wither,  waste,  and  ruin,  what  thou  wilt, 
But  call  not  Greatness  what  the  Gods  call  Guilt. 
Blossoms  and  grass  from  blood  in  battle  spilt, 
And  poppied  com,  1  bring, 
*Mid  mouldering  Babels,  to  oblivion  built, 
My  violets  spring. 

Little  by  little  my  small  drops  have  strength 
To  deck  with  green  delights  the  grateful  earth." 

And  so  forth,  not  quite  germane  (it  seems  to  me)  to 
the  matter  in  hand,  but  welcome  for  its  own  sake. 

Best  of  all  are  the  fables  that  deal  more  immediately 
with  the  emotions.  There  is,  for  instance,  that  of 
*'  The  Two  Travellers,"  which  is  profoundly  moving  in 
conception,  although  by  no  means  as  well  written  as 
some  others.  In  this,  one  of  the  two,  fearfully  frost- 
bitten, saves  his  life  out  of  the  snow  at  the  cost  of  all 

.  199 


CRITICISMS 

that  was  comely  in  his  body;  just  as,  long  before,  the 
other,  who  has  now  quietly  resigned  himself  to  death, 
had  violently  freed  himself  from  Love  at  the  cost  of  all 
that  was  finest  and  fairest  in  his  character.  Very 
graceful  and  sweet  is  the  fable  (if  so  it  should  be  called) 
in  which  the  author  sings  the  praises  of  that  "  kindly 
perspective"  which  lets  a  wheat-stalk  near  the  eye 
cover  twenty  leagues  of  distant  country,  and  makes  the 
humble  circle  about  a  man's  hearth  more  to  him  than 
all  the  possibilities  of  the  external  world.  The  com- 
panion fable  to  this  is  also  excellent.  It  tells  us  of  a 
man  who  had,  all  his  life  through,  entertained  a  passion 
for  certain  blue  hills  on  the  far  horizon,  and  had  prom- 
ised himself  to  travel  thither  ere  he  died,  and  become 
familiar  with  these  distant  friends.  At  last,  in  some 
political  trouble,  he  is  banished  to  the  very  place  of  his 
dreams.  He  arrives  there  overnight,  and,  when  he 
rises  and  goes  forth  in  the  morning,  there  sure  enough 
are  the  blue  hills,  only  now  they  have  changed  places 
with  him,  and  smile  across  to  him,  distant  as  ever, 
from  the  old  home  whence  he  has  come.  Such  a  story 
might  have  been  very  cynically  treated ;  but  it  is  not  so 
done,  the  whole  tone  is  kindly  and  consolatory,  and  the 
disenchanted  man  submissively  takes  the  lesson,  and 
understands  that  things  far  away  are  to  be  loved  for 
their  own  sake,  and  that  the  unattainable  is  not  truly 
unattainable,  when  we  can  make  the  beauty  of  it  our 
own.  Indeed,  throughout  all  these  two  volumes, 
though  there  is  much  practical  scepticism,  and  much 
irony  on  abstract  questions,  this  kindly  and  consolatory 
spirit  is  never  absent.  There  is  much  that  is  cheerful 
and,  after  a  sedate^  fireside  fashion,  hopeful.     No  one 


LORD   LYTTON'S   ''FABLES   IN   SONG" 

will  be  discouraged  by  reading  the  book;  but  the 
ground  of  all  this  hopefulness  and  cheerfulness  remains 
to  the  end  somewhat  vague.  It  does  not  seem  to  arise 
from  any  practical  belief  in  the  future  either  of  the  in- 
dividual or  the  race,  but  rather  from  the  profound  per- 
sonal contentment  of  the  writer.  This  is,  I  suppose, 
all  we  must  look  for  in  the  case.  It  is  as  much  as  we 
can  expect,  if  the  fabuliSt  shall  prove  a  shrewd  and 
cheerful  fellow-wayfarer,  one  with  whom  the  world 
does  not  seem  to  have  gone  much  amiss,  but  who  has 
yet  laughingly  learned  something  of  its  evil.  It  will 
depend  much,  of  course,  upon  our  own  character  and 
circumstances,  whether  the  encounter  will  be  agreeable 
and  bracing  to  the  spirits,  or  offend  us  as  an  ill-timed 
mockery.  But  where,  as  here,  there  is  a  little  tincture 
of  bitterness  along  with  the  good-nature,  where  it  is 
plainly  not  the  humour  of  a  man  cheerfully  ignorant, 
but  of  one  who  looks  on,  tolerant  and  superior  and 
smilingly  attentive,  upon  the  good  and  bad  of  our 
existence,  it  will  go  hardly  if  we  do  not  catch  some 
reflection  of  the  same  spirit  to  help  us  on  our  way. 
There  is  here  no  impertinent  and  lying  proclamation  of 
peace— none  of  the  cheap  optimism  of  the  well-to-do; 
what  we  find  here  is  a  view  of  life  that  would  be  even 
grievous,  were  it  not  enlivened  with  this  abiding  cheer- 
fulness, and  ever  and  anon  redeemed  by  a  stroke  of 
pathos. 

It  is  natural  enough,  I  suppose,  that  we  should  find 
wanting  in  this  book  some  of  the  intenser  qualities  of 
the  author's  work;  and  their  absence  is  made  up  for  by 
much  happy  description  after  a  quieter  fashion.  The 
burst  of  jubilation  over  the  departure  of  the  snow, 

20 1 


CRITICISMS 

which  forms  the  prelude  to  "The  Thistle,"  is  full  of 
spirit  and  of  pleasant  images.  The  speech  of  the  forest 
in  "  Sans  Souci "  is  inspired  by  a  beautiful  sentiment 
for  nature  of  the  modern  sort,  and  pleases  us  more, 
I  think,  as  poetry  should  please  us,  than  anything  in 
''Chronicles  and  Characters."  There  are  some  admir- 
able felicities  of  expression  here  and  there;  as  that  of 
the  hill,  whose  summit  • 

"  Did  print 
The  azure  air  with  pines.** 

Moreover,  I  do  not  recollect  in  the  author's  former 
work  any  symptom  of  that  sympathetic  treatment  of 
still  life,  which  is  noticeable  now  and  again  in  the 
fables ;  and  perhaps  most  noticeably,  when  he  sketches 
the  burned  letters  as  they  hover  along  the  gusty  flue, 
"  Thin,  sable  veils  wherein  a  restless  spark  Yet  trem- 
bled." But  the  description  is  at  its  best  when  the  sub- 
jects are  unpleasant,  or  even  grisly.  There  are  a  few 
capital  lines  in  this  key  on  the  last  spasm  of  the  battle 
before  alluded  to.  Surely  nothing  could  be  better,  in 
its  own  way,  than  the  fish  in  "  The  Last  Cruise  of  the 
Arrogant,"  "the  shadowy,  side-faced,  silent  things," 
that  come  butting  and  staring  with  lidless  eyes  at  the 
sunken  steam-engine.  And  although,  in  yet  another, 
we  are  told,  pleasantly  enough,  how  the  water  went 
down  into  the  valleys,  where  it  set  itself  gaily  to  saw 
wood,  and  on  into  the  plains,  where  it  would  soberly 
carry  grain  to  town ;  yet  the  real  strength  of  the  fable 
is  when  it  deals  with  the  shut  pool  in  which  certain 
unfortunate  raindrops  are  imprisoned  among  slugs  and 
snails,  and  in  the  company  of  an  old  toad.     The  sod* 

202 


LORD   LYTTON'S   "FABLES  IN  SONG" 

den  contentment  of  the  fallen  acorn  is  strangely  signifi- 
cant; and  it  is  astonishing  how  unpleasantly  we  are 
startled  by  the  appearance  of  her  horrible  lover,  the 
maggot. 

And  now  for  a)  last  word,  about  the  style.  This  is 
not  easy  to  criticise.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  to  it 
rapidity,  spirit,  and  a  full  sound;  the  lines  are  never 
lame,  and  the  sense  is  carried  forwards  with  an  uninter- 
rupted, impetuous  rush.  But  it  is  not  equal.  After 
passages  of  really  admirable  versification,  the  author 
falls  back  upon  a  sort  of  loose,  cavalry  manner,  not 
unlike  the  style  of  some  of  Mr.  Browning's  minor  pieces, 
and  almost  inseparable  from  wordiness,  and  an  easy 
acceptation  of  somewhat  cheap  finish.  There  is  no- 
thing here  of  that  compression  which  is  the  note  of  a 
really  sovereign  style.  It  is  unfair,  perhaps,  to  set  a 
not  remarkable  passage  from  Lord  Lytton  side  by  side 
with  one  of  the  signal  masterpieces  of  another,  and  a 
very  perfect  poet;  and  yet  it  is  interesting,  when  we 
see  how  the  portraiture  of  a  dog,  detailed  through  thirty- 
odd  lines,  is  frittered  down  and  finally  almost  lost  in 
the  mere  laxity  of  the  style,  to  compare  it  with  the 
clear,  simple,  vigorous  delineation  that  Burns,  in  four 
couplets,  has  given  us  of  the  ploughman's  collie.  It  is 
interesting,  at  first,  and  then  it  becomes  a  little  irritat- 
ing; for  when  we  think  of  other  passages  so  much 
more  finished  and  adroit,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that 
with  a  little  more  ardour  after  perfection  of  form,  criti- 
cism  would  have  found  nothing  left  for  her  to  censure. 
A  similar  mark  of  precipitate  work  is  the  number  of 
adjectives  tumultuously  heaped  together,  sometimes  to 
help  out  the  sense,  and  sometimes  (as  one  cannot  but 

203 


CRITICISMS 

suspect)  to  help  out  the  sound  of  the  verses.  I  do  not 
believe,  for  instance,  that  Lord  Lytton  himself  would 
defend  the  lines  in  which  we  are  told  how  Laocoon 
"  Revealed  to  Roman  crowds,  now  Christian  grown, 
That  Pagan  anguish  which,  in  Parian  stone,  the  Rho- 
dian  artist,"  and  so  on.  It  is  not  only  that  this  is  bad 
in  itself;  but  that  it  is  unworthy  of  the  company  in 
which  it  is  found;  that  such  verses  should  not  have 
appeared  with  the  name  of  a  good  versifier  like  Lord 
Lytton.  We  must  take  exception,  also,  in  conclusion, 
to  the  excess  of  alliteration.  Alliteration  is  so  liable  to 
be  abused  that  we  can  scarcely  be  too  sparing  of  it; 
and  yet  it  is  a  trick  that  seems  to  grow  upon  the  author 
with  years.  It  is  a  pity  to  see  fine  verses,  such  as 
some  in  "  Demos,"  absolutely  spoiled  by  the  recurrence 
of  one  wearisome  consonant. 


II 

SALVINI'S   MACBETH 

Salvini  dosed  his  short  visit  to  Edinburgh  by  a  per- 
formance of  Macbeth.  It  was,  perhaps,  from  a  senti- 
ment of  local  colour  that  he  chose  to  play  the  Scottish 
usurper  for  the  first  time  before  Scotsmen;  and  the 
audience  were  not  insensible  of  the  privilege.  Few 
things,  indeed,  can  move  a  stronger  interest  than  to  see 
a  great  creation  taking  shape  for  the  first  time.  If  it  is 
not  purely  artistic,  the  sentiment  is  surely  human.  And 
the  thought  that  you  are  before  all  the  world,  and  have 
the  start  of  so  many  others  as  eager  as  yourself,  at 
least  keeps  you  in  a  more  unbearable  suspense  before 
the  curtain  rises,  if  it  does  not  enhance  the  delight  with 
which  you  follow  the  performance  and  see  the  actor 
"  bend  up  each  corporal  agent "  to  realise  a  masterpiece 
of  a  few  hours'  duration.  With  a  player  so  variable  as 
Salvini,  who  trusts  to  the  feeling  of  the  moment  for  so 
much  detail,  and  who,  night  after  night,  does  the  same 
thing  differently  but  always  well,  it  can  never  be  safe 
to  pass  judgment  after  a  single  hearing.  And  this  is 
more  particularly  true  of  last  week's  Macbeth;  for  the 
whole  third  act  was  marred  by  a  grievously  humorous 
misadventure.  Several  minutes  too  soon  the  ghost  of 
Banquo  joined  the  party,  and,  after  having  sat  help- 

205 


CRITICISMS 

less  awhile  at  a  table,  was  ignominiously  withdrawn. 
Twice  was  this  ghostly  Jack-in-the-box  obtruded  on 
the  stage  before  his  time;  twice  removed  again;  and 
yet  he  showed  so  little  hurry  when  he  was  really 
wanted,  that,  after  an  awkward  pause,  Macbeth  had  to 
begin  his  apostrophe  to  empty  air.  The  arrival  of  the 
belated  spectre  in  the  middle,  with  a  jerk  that  made 
him  nod  all  over,  was  the  last  accident  in  the  chapter, 
and  worthily  topped  the  whole.  It  may  be  imagined  how 
lamely  matters  went  throughout  these  cross-purposes. 

In  spite  of  this,  and  some  other  hitches,  Salvini's 
Macbeth  had  an  emphatic  success.  The  creation  is 
worthy  of  a  place  beside  the  same  artist's  Othello  and 
Hamlet.  It  is  the  simplest  and  most  unsympathetic  of 
the  three;  but  the  absence  of  the  finer  lineaments  of 
Hamlet  is  redeemed  by  gusto,  breadth,  and  a  headlong 
unity.  Salvini  sees  nothing  great  in  Macbeth  beyond 
the  royalty  of  muscle,  and  that  courage  which  comes 
of  strong  and  copious  circulation.  The  moral  small- 
ness  of  the  man  is  insisted  on  from  the  first,  in  the 
shudder  of  uncontrollable  jealousy  with  which  he  sees 
Duncan  embracing  Banquo.  He  may  have  some  North- 
ern poetry  of  speech,  but  he  has  not  much  logical  un- 
derstanding. In  his  dealings  with  the  supernatural 
powers  he  is  like  a  savage  with  his  fetich,  trusting  them 
beyond  bounds  while  all  goes  well,  and  whenever  he 
is  crossed,  casting  his  belief  aside  and  calling  "  fate  into 
the  list."  For  his  wife,  he  is  little  more  than  an  agent, 
a  frame  of  bone  and  sinew  for  her  fiery  spirit  to  com- 
mand. The  nature  of  his  feeling  towards  her  is  ren- 
dered with  a  most  precise  and  delicate  touch.  He 
always  yields  to  the  woman's  fascination ;  and  yet  his 

206 


SALVINI'S   MACBETH 

caresses  (and  we  know  how  much  meaning  Salvini 
can  give  to  a  caress)  are  singularly  hard  and  unloving. 
Sometimes  he  lays  his  hand  on  her  as  he  might  take 
hold  of  any  one  who  happened  to  be  nearest  to  him  at  a 
moment  of  excitement.  Love  has  fallen  out  of  this  mar- 
riage by  the  way,  and  left  a  curious  friendship.  Only 
once— at  the  very  moment  when  she  is  showing  herself 
so  little  a  woman  and  so  much  a  high-spirited  man- 
only  once  is  he  very  deeply  stirred  towards  her;  and 
that  finds  expression  in  the  strange  and  horrible  trans- 
port of  admiration,  doubly  strange  and  horrible  on 
Salvini's  lips—"  Bring  forth  men-children  only!  " 

The  murder  scene,  as  was  to  be  expected,  pleased 
the  audience  best.  Macbeth's  voice,  in  the  talk  with 
his  wife,  was  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten ;  and  when  he 
spoke  of  his  hangman's  hands  he  seemed  to  have  blood 
in  his  utterance.  Never  for  a  moment,  even  in  the  very 
article  of  the  murder,  does  he  possess  his  own  soul. 
He  is  a  man  on  wires.  From  first  to  last  it  is  an  ex- 
hibition of  hideous  cowardice.  For,  after  all,  it  is  not 
here,  but  in  broad  daylight,  with  the  exhilaration  of 
conflict,  where  he  can  assure  himself  at  every  blow  he 
has  the  longest  sword  and  the  heaviest  hand,  that  this 
man's  physical  bravery  can  keep  him  up;  he  is  an  un- 
wieldy ship,  and  needs  plenty  of  way  on  before  he 
will  steer. 

In  the  banquet  scene,  while  the  first  murderer  gives 
account  of  what  he  has  done,  there  comes  a  flash  of 
truculent  joy  at  the  "twenty  trenched  gashes"  on 
Banquo's  head.  Thus  Macbeth  makes  welcome  to  his 
imagination  those  very  details  of  physical  horror  which 
are  so  soon  to  turn  sour  in  him.    As  he  runs  out  to 

207 


CRITICISMS 

embrace  these  cruel  circumstances,  as  he  seeks  to  realise 
to  his  mind's  eye  the  reassuring  spectacle  of  his  dead 
enemy,  he  is  dressing  out  the  phantom  to  terrify  him- 
self; and  his  imagination,  playing  the  part  of  justice, 
is  to  "  commend  to  his  own  lips  the  ingredients  of  his 
poisoned  chalice."  With  the  recollection  of  Hamlet 
and  his  father's  spirit  still  fresh  upon  him,  and  the  holy 
awe  with  which  that  good  man  encountered  things  not 
dreamt  of  in  his  philosophy,  it  was  not  possible  to 
avoid  looking  for  resemblances  between  the  two  appa- 
ritions and  the  two  men  haunted.  But  there  are  none 
to  be  found.  Macbeth  has  a  purely  physical  dislike  for 
Banquo's  spirit  and  the  "twenty  trenched  gashes.'* 
He  is  afraid  of  he  knows  not  what.  He  is  abject,  and 
again  blustering.  In  the  end  he  so  far  forgets  himself, 
his  terror,  and  the  nature  of  what  is  before  him,  that 
he  rushes  upon  it  as  he  would  upon  a  man.  When 
his  wife  tells  him  he  needs  repose,  there  is  something 
really  childish  in  the  way  he  looks  about  the  room,  and, 
seeing  nothing,  with  an  expression  of  almost  sensual 
relief,  plucks  up  heart  enough  to  go  to  bed.  And  what 
is  the  upshot  of  the  visitation  ?  It  is  written  in  Shake- 
speare, but  should  be  read  with  the  commentary  of  Sal- 
vini's  voice  and  expression :  — "  O!  siam  nelV  opra  ancor 
fanciulli''—''  We  are  yet  young  indeed."  Circle  below 
circle.  He  is  looking  with  horrible  satisfaction  into  the 
mouth  of  hell.  There  may  still  be  a  prick  to-day;  but 
to-morrow  conscience  will  be  dead,  and  he  may  move 
untroubled  in  this  element  of  blood. 

In  the  fifth  act  we  see  this  lowest  circle  reached ;  and 
it  is  Salvini's  finest  moment  throughout  the  play.  From 
the  first  he  was  admirably  made  up,  and  looked  Mac- 

308 


SALVINI'S  MACBETH 

beth  to  the  full  as  perfectly  as  ever  he  looked  Othello. 
From  the  first  moment  he  steps  upon  the  stage  you  can 
see  this  character  is  a  creation  to  the  fullest  meaning  of 
the  phrase;  for  the  man  before  you  is  a  type  you  know 
well  already.  He  arrives  with  Banquo  on  the  heath, 
fair  and  red-bearded,  sparing  of  gesture,  full  of  pride 
and  the  sense  of  animal  well-being,  and  satisfied  after 
the  battle  like  a  beast  who  has  eaten  his  fill.  But  in 
the  fifth  act  there  is  a  change.  This  is  still  the  big, 
burly,  fleshly,  handsome-looking  Thane;  here  is  still 
the  same  face  which  in  the  earlier  acts  could  be  super- 
ficially good-humoured  and  sometimes  royally  courteous. 
But  now  the  atmosphere  of  blood,  which  pervades  the 
whole  tragedy,  has  entered  into  the  man  and  subdued 
him  to  its  own  nature;  and  an  indescribable  degrada- 
tion, a  slackness  and  puffiness,  has  overtaken  his  fea- 
tures. He  has  breathed  the  air  of  carnage,  and  supped 
full  of  horrors.  Lady  Macbeth  complains  of  the  smell 
of  blood  on  her  hand:  Macbeth  makes  no  complaint- 
he  has  ceased  to  notice  it  now;  but  the  same  smell  is 
in  his  nostrils.  A  contained  fury  and  disgust  possesses 
him.  He  taunts  the  messenger  and  the  doctor  as  people 
would  taunt  their  mortal  enemies.  And,  indeed,  as  he 
knows  right  well,  every  one  is  his  enemy  now,  except 
his  wife.  About  her  he  questions  the  doctor  with 
something  like  a  last  human  anxiety;  and,  in  tones  of 
grisly  mystery,  asks  him  if  he  can  "  minister  to  a  mind 
diseased."  When  the  news  of  her  death  is  brought 
him,  he  is  staggered  and  falls  into  a  seat;  but  somehow 
it  is  not  anything  we  can  call  grief  that  he  displays. 
There  had  been  two  of  them  against  God  and  man; 
and  now,  when  there  is  only  one,  it  makes  perhaps  less 

209 


CRITICISMS 

difference  than  he  had  expected.  And  so  her  death  is 
not  only  an  affliction,  but  one  more  disillusion;  and  he 
redoubles  in  bitterness.  The  speech  that  follows,  given 
with  tragic  cynicism  in  every  word,  is  a  dirge,  not  so 
much  for  her  as  for  himself.  From  that  time  forth  there 
is  nothing  human  left  in  him,  only  "  the  fiend  of  Scot- 
land," Macduff's  "  hell-hound,"  whom,  with  a  stern  glee, 
we  see  baited  like  a  bear  and  hunted  down  like  a  wolf. 
He  is  inspired  and  set  above  fate  by  a  demoniacal  energy, 
a  lust  of  wounds  and  slaughter.  Even  after  he  meets 
Macduff  his  courage  does  not  fail;  but  when  he  hears 
the  Thane  was  not  born  of  woman,  all  virtue  goes  out 
of  him ;  and  though  he  speaks  sounding  words  of  de- 
fiance, the  last  combat  is  little  better  than  a  suicide. 

The  whole  performance  is,  as  I  said,  so  full  of  gusto 
and  a  headlong  unity ;  the  personality  of  Macbeth  is  so 
sharp  and  powerful ;  and  within  these  somewhat  narrow 
limits  there  is  so  much  play  and  saliency  that,  so  far  as 
concerns  Salvini  himself,  a  third  great  success  seems 
indubitable.  Unfortunately,  however,  a  great  actor  can- 
not fill  more  than  a  very  small  fraction  of  the  boards ;  and 
though  Banquo's  ghost  will  probably  be  more  seasonable 
in  his  future  apparitions,  there  are  some  more  inherent 
difficulties  in  the  piece.  The  company  at  large  did  not 
distinguish  themselves.  Macduff,  to  the  huge  delight 
of  the  gallery,  out-Macduff'd  the  average  ranter.  The 
lady  who  filled  the  principal  female  part  has  done  better 
on  other  occasions,  but  I  fear  she  has  not  metal  for 
what  she  tried  last  week.  Not  to  succeed  in  the  sleep- 
walking scene  is  to  make  a  memorable  failure.  As  it 
was  given,  it  succeeded  in  being  wrong  in  art  without 
being  true  to  nature. 


SALYINI'S  MACBETH 

And  there  is  yet  another  difficulty,  happily  easy  to 
reform,  which  somewhat  interfered  with  the  success 
of  the  performance.  At  the  end  of  the  incantation 
scene  the  Italian  translator  has  made  Macbeth  fall  in- 
sensible upon  the  stage.  This  is  a  change  of  question- 
able propriety  from  a  psychological  point  of  view ;  while 
in  point  of  view  of  effect  it  leaves  the  stage  for  some 
moments  empty  of  all  business.  To  remedy  this,  a 
bevy  of  green  ballet-girls  came  forth  and  pointed  their 
toes  about  the  prostrate  king.  A  dance  of  High  Church 
curates,  or  a  hornpipe  by  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke,  would  not 
be  more  out  of  the  key ;  though  the  gravity  of  a  Scots 
audience  was  not  to  be  overcome,  and  they  merely  ex- 
pressed their  disapprobation  by  a  round  of  moderate 
hisses,  a  similar  irruption  of  Christmas  fairies  would 
most  likely  convulse  a  London  theatre  from  pit  to  gal- 
lery with  inextinguishable  laughter.  It  is,  I  am  told, 
the  Italian  tradition ;  but  it  is  one  more  honoured  in  the 
breach  than  the  observance.  With  the  total  disappear- 
ance of  these  damsels,  with  a  stronger  Lady  Macbeth, 
and,  if  possible,  with  some  compression  of  those  scenes 
in  which  Salvini  does  not  appear,  and  the  spectator 
is  left  at  the  mercy  of  Macduffs  and  Duncans,  the  play 
would  go  twice  as  well,  and  we  should  be  better  able 
to  follow  and  enjoy  an  admirable  work  of  dramatic  art. 


an 


Ill 

bagster's  "  pilgrim's  progress  " 

I  HAVE  here  before  me  an  edition  of  the  Pilgrim* s 
Progress,  bound  in  green,  without  a  date,  and  described 
as  "  illustrated  by  nearly  three  hundred  engravings,  and 
memoir  of  Buny an. "  On  the  outside  it  is  lettered  "  Bag- 
ster's  Illustrated  Edition,"  and  after  the  author's  apology, 
facing  the  first  page  of  the  tale,  a  folding  pictorial  "  Plan 
of  the  Road  "  is  marked  as  "  drawn  by  the  late  Mr.  T. 
Conder,"  and  engraved  by  J.  Basire.  No  further  in- 
formation is  anywhere  vouchsafed;  perhaps  the  pub- 
lishers had  judged  the  work  too  unimportant;  and  we 
are  still  left  ignorant  whether  or  not  we  owe  the  wood- 
cuts in  the  body  of  the  volume  to  the  same  hand  that 
drew  the  plan.  It  seems,  however,  more  than  probable. 
The  literal  particularity  of  mind  which,  in  the  map,  laid 
down  the  flower-plots  in  the  devil's  garden,  and  care- 
fully introduced  the  court-house  in  the  town  of  Vanity, 
is  closely  paralleled  in  many  of  the  cuts ;  and  in  both,  the 
architecture  of  the  buildings  and  the  disposition  of  the 
gardens  have  a  kindred  and  entirely  English  air.  Who- 
ever he  was,  the  author  of  these  wonderful  little  pictures 
may  lay  claim  to  be  the  best  illustrator  of  Bunyan.^ 

1  The  illustrator  was,  in  fact,  a  lady,  Miss  Eunice  Bagster,  eldest  daughter 
of  the  publisher,  Samuel  Bagster;  except  in  the  case  of  the  cuts  depicting 

212 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS" 

They  are  not  only  good  illustrations,  like  so  many  others ; 
but  they  are  like  so  few,  good  illustrations  of  Bun- 
yan.  Their  spirit,  in  defect  and  quality,  is  still  the  same 
as  his  own.  The  designer  also  has  lain  down  and 
dreamed  a  dream,  as  literal,  as  quaint,  and  almost  as 
apposite  as  Bunyan's ;  and  text  and  pictures  make  but 
the  two  sides  of  the  same  homespun  yet  impassioned 
story.  To  do  justice  to  the  designs,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  say,  for  the  hundredth  time,  a  word  or  two  about 
the  masterpiece  which  they  adorn. 

All  allegories  have  a  tendency  to  escape  from  the  pur- 
pose of  their  creators;  and  as  the  characters  and  inci- 
dents become  more  and  more  interesting  in  themselves, 
the  moral,  which  these  were  to  show  forth,  falls  more 
and  more  into  neglect.  An  architect  may  command  a 
wreath  of  vine-leaves  round  the  cornice  of  a  monument; 
but  if^  as  each  leaf  came  from  the  chisel,  it  took  proper 
life  and  fluttered  freely  on  the  wall,  and  if  the  vine  grew, 
and  the  building  were  hidden  over  with  foliage  and 
fruit,  the  architect  would  stand  in  much  the  same  situa- 
tion as  the  writer  of  allegories.  The  FaBry  Queen  was 
an  allegory,  I  am  willing  to  believe;  but  it  survives  as 
an  imaginative  tale  in  incomparable  verse.  The  case  of 
Bunyan  is  widely  different ;  and  yet  in  this  also  Allegory, 
poor  nymph,  although  never  quite  forgotten,  is  some- 
times rudely  thrust  against  the  wall.  Bunyan  was 
fervently  in  earnest;  with  "his  fingers  in  his  ears,  he 
ran  on,"  straight  for  his  mark.     He  tells  us  himself,  in 

the  fight  with  Apollyon,  which  were  designed  by  her  brother,  Mr.  Jona- 
than Bagster,  The  edition  was  published  in  1845.  I  am  indebted  for 
this  information  to  the  kindness  ol  Mr.  Robert  Bagster,  the  present  man- 
aging director  of  the  firm.— [Ed.] 

213 


CRITICISMS 

the  conclusion  to  the  first  part,  that  he  did  not  fear  t<? 
raise  a  laugh ;  indeed,  he  feared  nothing,  and  said  any- 
thing; and  he  was  greatly  served  in  this  by  a  certain 
rustic  privilege  of  his  style^  which,  like  the  talk  of  strong 
uneducated  men,  when  it  does  not  impress  by  its  force, 
still  charms  by  its  simplicity.  The  mere  story  and  the 
allegorical  design  enjoyed  perhaps  his  equal  favour. 
He  believed  in  both  with  an  energy  of  faith  that  was 
capable  of  moving  mountains.  And  we  have  to  remark 
in  him,  not  the  parts  where  inspiration  fails  and  is  sup- 
plied by  cold  and  merely  decorative  invention,  but  the 
parts  where  faith  has  grown  to  be  credulity,  and  his 
characters  become  so  real  to  him  that  he  forgets  the  end 
of  their  creation.  We  can  follow  him  step  by  step  into 
the  trap  which  he  lays  for  himself  by  his  own  entire 
good  faith  and  triumphant  literality  of  vision,  till  the 
trap  closes  and  shuts  him  in  an  inconsistency.  The 
allegories  of  the  Interpreter  and  of  the  Shepherds  of  the 
Delectable  Mountains  are  all  actually  performed,  like 
stage-plays,  before  the  pilgrims.  The  son  of  Mr.  Great- 
grace  visibly  "tumbles  hills  about  with  his  words." 
Adam  the  First  has  his  condemnation  written  visibly 
on  his  forehead,  so  that  Faithful  reads  it.  At  the  very 
instant  the  net  closes  round  the  pilgrims,  "  the  white 
robe  falls  from  the  black  man's  body."  Despair  "get- 
teth  him  a  grievous  crab-tree  cudgel " ;  it  was  in  "  sun- 
shiny weather "  that  he  had  his  fits ;  and  the  birds  in 
the  grove  about  the  House  Beautiful,  "our  country 
birds,"  only  sing  their  little  pious  verses  "  at  the  spring, 
when  the  flowers  appear  and  the  sun  shines  warm." 
"I  often,"  says  Piety,  "go  out  to  hear  them;  we  also 
ofttimes  keep  them  tame  on  our  house."    The  post 

214 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS'' 

between  Beulah  and  the  Celestial  City  sounds  his  horn, 
as  you  may  yet  hear  in  country  places.  Madam  Bubble, 
that  "  tall,  comely  dame,  something  of  a  swarthy  com- 
plexion, in  very  pleasant  attire,  but  old,"  "gives  you 
a  smile  at  the  end  of  each  sentence"— a  real  woman 
she;  we  all  know  her.  Christiana  dying  "gave  Mr. 
Stand-fast  a  ring,"  for  no  possible  reason  in  the  allegory, 
merely  because  the  touch  was  human  and  affecting. 
Look  at  Great-heart,  with  his  soldierly  ways,  garrison 
ways,  as  I  had  almost  called  them;  with  his  taste  in 
weapons ;  his  delight  in  any  that  "  he  found  to  be  a 
man  of  his  hands";  his  chivalrous  point  of  honour, 
letting  Giant  Maul  get  up  again  when  he  was  down,  a 
thing  fairly  flying  in  the  teeth  of  the  moral;  above  all, 
with  his  language  in  the  inimitable  tale  of  Mr.  Fearing: 
"I  thought  I  should  have  lost  my  man  "—"chicken- 
hearted"— "at  last  he  came  in,  and  I  will  say  that  for 
my  lord,  he  carried  it  wonderful  lovingly  to  him."  This 
is  no  Independent  minister;  this  is  a  stout,  honest,  big- 
busted  ancient,  adjusting  his  shoulder-belts,  twirling 
his  long  moustaches  as  he  speaks.  Last  and  most  re- 
markable, "My  sword,"  says  the  dying  Valiant-for- 
Truth,  he  in  whom  Great-heart  delighted,  "  my  sword 
I  give  to  him  that  shall  succeed  me  in  my  pilgrimage, 
and  my  courage  and  skill  to  him  that  can  get  it."  And 
after  this  boast,  more  arrogantly  unorthodox  than  was 
ever  dreamed  of  by  the  rejected  Ignorance,  we  are  told 
that  "all  the  trumpets  sounded  for  him  on  the  other 
side.'' 

In  every  page  the  book  is  stamped  with  the  same 
energy  of  vision  and  the  same  energy  of  belief.  The 
quality  is  equally  and  indifferently  displayed  in  the  spirit 

215 


CRITICISMS 

of  the  fighting,  the  tenderness  of  the  pathos,  the  start- 
ling vigour  and  strangeness  of  the  incidents,  the  natural 
strain  of  the  conversations,  and  the  humanity  and  charm 
of  the  characters.  Trivial  talk  over  a  meal,  the  dying 
words  of  heroes,  the  delights  of  Beulah  or  the  Celestial 
City,  Apollyon  and  my  Lord  Hate-good,  Great-heart, 
and  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman,  all  have  been  imagined  with 
the  same  clearness,  all  written  of  with  equal  gusto  and 
precision,  all  created  in  the  same  mixed  element,  of 
simplicity  that  is  almost  comical,  and  art  that,  for  its 
purpose,  is  faultless. 

It  was  in  much  the  same  spirit  that  our  artist  sat  down 
to  his  drawings.  He  is  by  nature  a  Bunyan  of  the 
pencil.  He,  too,  will  draw  anything,  from  a  butcher  at 
work  on  a  dead  sheep,  up  to  the  courts  of  Heaven. 
"  A  Lamb  for  Supper "  is  the  name  of  one  of  his  designs, 
''  Their  Glorious  Entry  "  of  another.  He  has  the  same 
disregard  for  the  ridiculous,  and  enjoys  somewhat  of 
the  same  privilege  of  style,  so  that  we  are  pleased  even 
when  we  laugh  the  most.  He  is  literal  to  the  verge  of 
folly.  If  dust  is  to  be  raised  from  the  unswept  parlour, 
you  may  be  sure  it  will  "  fly  abundantly  "  in  the  picture. 
If  Faithful  is  to  lie  "as  dead"  before  Moses,  dead  he 
shall  lie  with  a  warrant— dead  and  stiff  like  granite;  nay 
(and  here  the  artist  must  enhance  upon  the  symbolism 
of  the  author),  it  is  with  the  identical  stone  tables  of  the 
law  that  Moses  fells  the  sinner.  Good  and  bad  people, 
whom  we  at  once  distinguish  in  the  text  by  their  names, 
Hopeful,  Honest,  and  Valiant-for-Truth  on  the  one  hand, 
as  against  By-ends,  Sir  Having  Greedy,  and  the  Lord 
Old-man  on  the  other,  are  in  these  drawings  as  simply 
distinguished  by  their  costume.     Good  people,  when 

216 


BAGSTER'S   '^  PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS" 

not  armed  cap-a-pie,  wear  a  speckled  tunic  girt  about 
the  waist,  and  low  hats,  apparently  of  straw.  Bad 
people  swagger  in  tail-coats  and  chimney-pots,  a  few 
with  knee-breeches,  but  the  large  majority  in  trousers, 
and  for  all  the  world  like  guests  at  a  garden-party. 
Worldly  Wiseman  alone,  by  some  inexplicable  quirk, 
stands  before  Christian  in  laced  hat,  embroidered  waist- 
coat, and  trunk-hose.  But  above  all  examples  of  this 
artist's  intrepidity,  commend  me  to  the  print  entitled 
"Christian  Finds  it  Deep."  "A  great  darkness  and 
horror,"  says  the  text,  have  fallen  on  the  pilgrim;  it  is 
the  comfortless  death-bed  with  which  Bunyan  so  strik- 
ingly concludes  the  sorrows  and  conflicts  of  his  hero. 
How  to  represent  this  worthily  the  artist  knew  not; 
and  yet  he  was  determined  to  represent  it  somehow. 
This  was  how  he  did:  Hopeful  is  still  shown  to  his 
neck  above  the  water  of  death ;  but  Christian  has  bodily 
disappeared,  and  a  blot  of  solid  blackness  indicates  his 
place. 

As  you  continue  to  look  at  these  pictures,  about  an 
inch  square  for  the  most  part,  sometimes  printed  three 
or  more  to  the  page,  and  each  having  a  printed  legend 
of  its  own,  however  trivial  the  event  recorded,  you 
will  soon  become  aware  of  two  things :  first,  that  the 
man  can  draw,  and,  second,  that  he  possesses  the  gift 
of  an  imagination.  "Obstinate  reviles,"  says  the 
legend;  and  you  should  see  Obstinate  reviling.  "He 
warily  retraces  his  steps  " ;  and  there  is  Christian,  posting 
through  the  plain,  terror  and  speed  in  every  muscle. 
"  Mercy  yearns  to  go  "  shows  you  a  plain  interior  with 
packing  going  forward,  and,  right  in  the  middle,  Mercy 
yearning  to  go— every  line  of  the  girl's  figure  yearning. 

217 


CRITICISMS 

In  "  The  Chamber  called  Peace  "  we  see  a  simple  Eng- 
lish room,  bed  with  white  curtains,  window  valance 
and  door,  as  may  be  found  in  many  thousand  unpre- 
tentious houses ;  but  far  off,  through  the  open  window, 
we  behold  the  sun  uprising  out  of  a  great  plain,  and 
Christian  hails  it  with  his  hand : 

*'  Where  am  I  now  !  is  this  the  love  and  care 
Of  Jesus,  for  the  men  that  pilgrims  are  ! 
Thus  to  provide  !    That  I  should  be  forgiven  I 
And  dwell  already  the  next  door  to  heaven  ! " 

A  page  or  two  further,  from  the  top  of  the  House 
Beautiful,  the  damsels  point  his  gaze  towards  the  De- 
lectable Mountains:  "The  Prospect,"  so  the  cut  is 
ticketed— and  I  shall  be  surprised,  if  on  less  than  a 
square  of  paper  you  can  show  me  one  so  wide  and  fair. 
Down  a  cross-road  on  an  English  plain,  a  cathedral  city 
outlined  on  the  horizon,  a  hazel  shaw  upon  the  left, 
comes  Madam  Wanton  dancing  with  her  fair  enchanted 
cup,  and  Faithful,  book  in  hand,  half  pauses.  The 
cut  is  perfect  as  a  symbol :  the  giddy  movement  of  the 
sorceress,  the  uncertain  poise  of  the  man  struck  to  the 
heart  by  a  temptation,  the  contrast  of  that  even  plain  of 
life  whereon  he  journeys  with  the  bold,  ideal  bearing 
of  the  wanton— the  artist  who  invented  and  portrayed 
this  had  not  merely  read  Bunyan,  he  had  also  thought- 
fully lived.  The  Delectable  Mountains— I  continue 
skimming  the  first  part— are  not  on  the  whole  happily 
rendered.  Once,  and  once  only,  the  note  is  struck, 
when  Christian  and  Hopeful  are  seen  coming,  shoulder- 
high,  through  a  thicket  of  green  shrubs— box,  perhaps, 
or  perfumed  nutmeg;  while  behind  them,  domed  or 

218 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS" 

pointed,  the  hills  stand  ranged  against  the  sky.  A 
little  further,  and  we  come  to  that  masterpiece  of  Bun- 
yan's  insight  into  life,  the  Enchanted  Ground;  where, 
in  a  few  traits,  he  has  set  down  the  latter  end  of  such 
a  number  of  the  would-be  good;  where  his  allegory 
goes  so  deep  that,  to  people  looking  seriously  on  life, 
it  cuts  like  satire.  The  true  significance  of  this  inven- 
tion lies,  of  course,  far  out  of  the  way  of  drawing;  only 
one  feature,  the  great  tedium  of  the  land,  the  growing 
weariness  in  well-doing,  may  be  somewhat  represented 
in  a  symbol.  The  pilgrims  are  near  the  end :  "  Two 
Miles  Yet,"  says  the  legend.  The  road  goes  ploughing 
up  and  down  over  a  rolling  heath ;  the  wayfarers,  with 
outstretched  arms,  are  already  sunk  to  the  knees  over 
the  brow  of  the  nearest  hill ;  they  have  just  passed  a 
milestone  with  the  cipher  two;  from  overhead  a  great, 
piled,  summer  cumulus,  as  of  a  slumberous  summer 
afternoon,  beshadows  them:  two  miles!  it  might  be 
hundreds.  In  dealing  with  the  Land  of  Beulah  the 
artist  lags,  in  both  parts,  miserably  behind  the  text,  but 
in  the  distant  prospect  of  the  Celestial  City  more  than 
regains  his  own.  You  will  remember  when  Christian 
and  Hopeful  "with  desire  fell  sick."  "Effect  of  the 
Sunbeams  "  is  the  artist's  title.  Against  the  sky,  upon 
a  cliffy  mountain,  the  radiant  temple  beams  upon  them 
over  deep,  subjacent  woods;  they,  behind  a  mound, 
as  if  seeking  shelter  from  the  splendour— one  prostrate 
on  his  face,  one  kneeling,  and  with  hands  ecstatically 
lifted— yearn  with  passion  after  that  immortal  city. 
Turn  the  page,  and  we  behold  them  walking  by  the 
very  shores  of  death ;  Heaven,  from  this  nigher  view, 
has  risen  half-way  to  the  zenith,  and  sheds  a  wider 

319 


CRITICISMS 

glory;  and  the  two  pilgrims,  dark  against  that 
brightness,  walk  and  sing  out  of  the  fulness  of 
their  hearts.  No  cut  more  thoroughly  illustrates  at 
once  the  merit  and  the  weakness  of  the  artist.  Each 
pilgrim  sings  with  a  book  in  his  grasp— a  family 
Bible  at  the  least  for  bigness;  tomes  so  recklessly 
enormous  that  our  second  impulse  is  to  laughter. 
And  yet  that  is  not  the  first  thought,  nor  perhaps 
the  last.  Something  in  the  attitude  of  the  mani- 
kins—faces they  have  none,  they  are  too  small  for 
that— something  in  the  way  they  swing  these 
monstrous  volumes  to  their  singing,  something 
perhaps  borrowed  from  the  text,  some  subtle  dif- 
ferentiation from  the  cut  that  went  before  and 
the  cut  that  follows  after— something,  at  least, 
speaks  clearly  of  a  fearful  joy,  of  Heaven  seen 
from  the  death-bed,  of  the  horror  of  the  last  pas- 
sage no  less  than  of  the  glorious  coming  home. 
There  is  that  in  the  action  of  one  of  them  which 
always  reminds  me,  with  a  difference,  of  that 
haunting  last  glimpse  of  Thomas  Idle,  travelling 
to  Tyburn  in  the  cart.  Next  come  the  Shining 
Ones,  wooden  and  trivial  enough;  the  pilgrims  pass 
into  the  river;  the  blot  already  mentioned  settles  over 
and  obliterates  Christian.  In  two  more  cuts  we  be- 
hold them  drawing  nearer  to  the  other  shore;  and 
then,  between  two  radiant  angels,  one  of  whom 
points  upwards,  we  see  them  mounting  in  new  weeds, 
their  former  lendings  left  behind  them  on  the  inky 
river.  More  angels  meet  them;  Heaven  is  displayed, 
and  if  no  better,  certainly  no  worse,  than  it  has  been 
shown  by  others— a  place,  at  least,  infinitely  popu- 

220 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS" 

lous  and  glorious  with  light— a  place  that  haunts  sol- 
emnly the  hearts  of  children.  And  then  this  symbolic 
draughtsman  once  more  strikes  into  his  proper  vein. 
Three  cuts  conclude  the  first  part.  In  the  first  the 
gates  close,  black  against  the  glory  struggling  from 
within.  The  second  shows  us  Ignorance— alas!  poor 
Arminian!— hailing,  in  a  sad  twilight,  the  ferryman 
Vain-Hope;  and  in  the  third  we  behold  him,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  black  already  with  the  hue  of  his 
eternal  fate,  carried  high  over  the  mountain-tops  of  the 
world  by  two  angels  of  the  anger  of  the  Lord.  "  Car- 
ried to  Another  Place,"  the  artist  enigmatically  names 
his  plate— a  terrible  design. 

Wherever  he  touches  on  the  black  side  of  the  super- 
natural his  pencil  grows  more  daring  and  incisive.  He 
has  many  true  inventions  in  the  perilous  and  diabolic; 
he  has  many  startling  nightmares  realised.  It  is  not 
easy  to  select  the  best;  some  may  like  one  and  some 
another;  the  nude,  depilated  devil  bounding  and  cast- 
ing darts  against  the  Wicket  Gate;  the  scroll  of  flying 
horrors  that  hang  over  Christian  by  the  Mouth  of  Hell; 
the  horned  shade  that  comes  behind  him  whispering 
blasphemies;  the  daylight  breaking  through  that  rent 
cave-mouth  of  the  mountains  and  falling  chill  adown 
the  haunted  tunnel;  Christian's  further  progress  along 
the  causeway,  between  the  two  black  pools,  where,  at 
every  yard  or  two,  a  gin,  a  pitfall,  or  a  snare  awaits 
the  passer-by— loathsome  white  devilkins  harbouring 
close  under  the  bank  to  work  the  springes.  Christian 
himself  pausing  and  pricking  with  his  sword's  point  at 
the  nearest  noose,  and  pale  discomfortable  mountains 
rising  on  the  farther  side;   or  yet  again,  the  two  ill- 


CRITICISMS 

favoured  ones  that  beset  the  first  of  Christian's  journey, 
with  the  frog-like  structure  of  the  skull,  the  frog-like 
limberness  of  limbs— crafty,  slippery,  lustful-looking 
devils,  drawn  always  in  outline  as  though  possessed  of 
a  dim,  infernal  luminosity.  Horrid  fellows  are  they, 
one  and  all;  horrid  fellows  and  horrific  scenes.  In 
another  spirit  that  Good-Conscience  "  to  whom  Mr. 
Honest  had  spoken  in  his  lifetime,"  a  cowled,  grey, 
awful  figure,  one  hand  pointing  to  the  heavenly  shore, 
realises,  I  will  not  say  all,  but  some  at  least  of  the 
strange  impressiveness  of  Bunyan's  words.  It  is  no 
easy  nor  pleasant  thing  to  speak  in  one's  lifetime  with 
Good-Conscience;  he  is  an  austere,  unearthly  friend, 
whom  maybe  Torquemada  knew ;  and  the  folds  of  his 
raiment  are  not  merely  claustral,  but  have  something 
of  the  horror  of  the  pall.  Be  not  afraid,  however;  with 
the  hand  of  that  appearance  Mr.  Honest  will  get  safe 
across. 

Yet  perhaps  it  is  in  sequences  that  this  artist  best 
displays  himself.  He  loves  to  look  at  either  side  of  a 
thing:  as,  for  instance,  when  he  shows  us  both  sides 
of  the  wall—"  Grace  Inextinguishable  "  on  the  one  side, 
with  the  devil  vainly  pouring  buckets  on  the  flame, 
and  "  The  Oil  of  Grace  "  on  the  other,  where  the  Holy 
Spirit,  vessel  in  hand,  still  secretly  supplies  the  fire. 
He  loves,  also,  to  show  us  the  same  event  twice  over, 
and  to  repeat  his  instantaneous  photographs  at  the  in- 
terval of  but  a  moment.  So  we  have,  first,  the  whole 
troop  of  Pilgrims  coming  up  to  Valiant,  and  Great- 
heart  to  the  front,  spear  in  hand  and  parleying;  and 
next,  the  same  cross-roads,  from  a  more  distant  view, 
the  convoy  now  scattered  and  looking  safely  and  curi- 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS" 

ously  on,  and  Valiant  handing  over  for  inspection  his 
"right  Jerusalem  blade."  It  is  true  that  this  designer 
has  no  great  care  after  consistency:  Apollyon's  spear 
is  laid  by,  his  quiver  of  darts  will  disappear,  whenever 
they  might  hinder  the  designer's  freedom;  and  the 
fiend's  tail  is  blobbed  or  forked  at  his  good  pleasure. 
But  this  is  not  unsuitable  to  the  illustration  of  the 
fervent  Bunyan,  breathing  hurry  and  momentary  in- 
spiration. He,  with  his  hot  purpose,  hunting  sinners 
with  a  lasso,  shall  himself  forget  the  things  that  he 
has  written  yesterday.  He  shall  first  slay  Heedless  in 
the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and  then  take  leave  of  him 
talking  in  his  sleep,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  in  an 
arbour  on  the  Enchanted  Ground.  And  again,  in  his 
rhymed  prologue,  he  shall  assign  some  of  the  glory  of 
the  siege  of  Doubting  Castle  to  his  favourite  Valiant- 
for-Truth,  who  did  not  meet  with  the  besiegers  till 
long  after,  at  that  dangerous  corner  by  Deadman's 
Lane.  And,  with  all  inconsistencies  and  freedoms, 
there  is  a  power  shown  in  these  sequences  of  cuts :  a 
power  of  joining  on  one  action  or  one  humour  to  an- 
other; a  power  of  following  out  the  moods,  even  of  the 
dismal  subterhuman  fiends  engendered  by  the  artist's 
fancy;  a  power  of  sustained  continuous  realisation, 
step  by  step,  in  nature's  order,  that  can  tell  a  story,  in 
all  its  ins  and  outs,  its  pauses  and  surprises,  fully  and 
figuratively,  like  the  art  of  words. 

One  such  sequence  is  the  fight  of  Christian  and 
Apollyon— six  cuts,  weird  and  fiery,  like  the  text. 
The  pilgrim  is  throughout  a  pale  and  stockish  figure; 
but  the  devil  covers  a  multitude  of  defects.  There  is 
no  better  devil  of  the  conventional  order  than   our 

223 


CRITICISMS 

artist's  Apollyon,  with  his  mane,  his  wings,  his  bestial 
legs,  his  changing  and  terrifying  expression,  his  in- 
fernal energy  to  slay.  In  cut  the  first  you  see  him  afar 
off,  still  obscure  in  form,  but  already  formidable  in 
suggestion.  Cut  the  second,  "The  Fiend  in  Dis- 
course," represents  him,  not  reasoning,  railing  rather, 
shaking  his  spear  at  the  pilgrim,  his  shoulder  advanced, 
his  tail  writhing  in  the  air,  his  foot  ready  for  a  spring, 
while  Christian  stands  back  a  little,  timidly  defensive. 
The  third  illustrates  these  magnificent  words :  "  Then 
Apollyon  straddled  quite  over  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  way,  and  said,  I  am  void  of  fear  in  this  matter: 
prepare  thyself  to  die ;  for  I  swear  by  my  infernal  den 
that  thou  shalt  go  no  farther:  here  will  I  spill  thy  soul! 
And  with  that  he  threw  a  flaming  dart  at  his  breast." 
In  the  cut  he  throws  a  dart  with  either  hand,  belching 
pointed  flames  out  of  his  mouth,  spreading  his  broad 
vans,  and  straddling  the  while  across  the  path,  as  only 
a  fiend  can  straddle  who  has  just  sworn  by  his  infernal 
den.  The  defence  will  not  be  long  against  such  vice, 
such  flames,  such  red-hot  nether  energy.  And  in  the 
fourth  cut,  to  be  sure,  he  has  leaped  bodily  upon  his 
victim,  sped  by  foot  and  pinion,  and  roaring  as  he 
leaps.  The  fifth  shows  the  climacteric  of  the  battle; 
Christian  has  reached  nimbly  out  and  got  his  sword, 
and  dealt  that  deadly  home-thrust,  the  fiend  still 
stretched  upon  him,  but  "giving  back,  as  one  that  had 
received  his  mortal  wound."  The  raised  head,  the 
bellowing  mouth,  the  paw  clapped  upon  the  sword, 
the  one  wing  relaxed  in  agony,  all  realise  vividly  these 
words  of  the  text.  In  the  sixth  and  last,  the  trivial 
armed  figure  of  the  pilgrim   is  seen   kneeling  with 

224 


Obstinate  reviles 


Mr.  Worldiy-Wiseman 


He  warily  retraces  his  steps 


Christian  at  the  gate 


The  parlour  unswept 


The  chamber  called  Peace 


Is  met  by  Apollyon 


The  fiend  in  discourse 


The  conflict 


Close  combat 


The  deadly  thrust 


Thanksgiving  for  victory 


His  last  weapon— All-prayer 


-^ 


hispering  blasphemies 


\^ 


N 


Snares,  traps,  gins,  and  pitfalls 


Madam  Wanton 


Two  miles  yet 


is^smwilf/y^ 


Effect  of  the  sunbeams 


Carried  to  another  place 


BAGSTER'S   "PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS" 

clasped  hands  on  the  betrodden  scene  of  contest  and 
among  the  shivers  of  the  darts ;  while  just  at  the  margin 
the  hinder  quarters  and  the  tail  of  Apollyon  are  whisk- 
ing off,  indignant  and  discomfited. 

In  one  point  only  do  these  pictures  seem  to  be  un- 
worthy of  the  text,  and  that  point  is  one  rather  of 
the  difference  of  arts  than  the  difference  of  artists. 
Throughout  his  best  and  worst,  in  his  highest  and 
most  divine  imaginations  as  in  the  narrowest  sallies  of 
his  sectarianism,  the  human-hearted  piety  of  Bunyan 
touches  and  ennobles,  convinces,  accuses  the  reader. 
Through  no  art  besides  the  art  of  words  can  the  kind- 
ness of  a  man's  affections  be  expressed.  In  the  cuts 
you  shall  find  faithfully  parodied  the  quaintness  and 
the  power,  the  triviality  and  the  surprising  freshness 
of  the  author's  fancy;  there  you  shall  find  him  out- 
stripped in  ready  symbolism  and  the  art  of  bringing 
things  essentially  invisible  before  the  eyes :  but  to  feel 
the  contact  of  essential  goodness,  to  be  made  in  love 
with  piety,  the  book  must  be  read  and  not  the  prints 
examined. 

Farewell  should  not  be  taken  with  a  grudge;  nor 
can  I  dismiss  in  any  other  words  than  those  of  grati- 
tude a  series  of  pictures  which  have,  to  one  at  least, 
been  the  visible  embodiment  of  Bunyan  from  childhood 
up,  and  shown  him,  through  all  his  years.  Great-heart 
lungeing  at  Giant  Maul,  and  Apollyon  breathing  fire  at 
Christian,  and  every  turn  and  town  along  the  road  to 
the  Celestial  City,  and  that  bright  place  itself,  seen  as 
to  a  stave  of  music,  shining  afar  off  upon  the  hill-top, 
the  candle  of  the  world. 


225 


LETTER  TO  THE  CLERGY 
OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND 


Originally  published  as  a  pamphlet  hy  W.  Blackwood  and 
Sons,  Edinburgh  and  London,  i8y^ 


i 


AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 
OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND 

WITH  A  NOTE  FOR  THE  LAITY 

"  Had  I  a  strong  voice,  as  it  is  the  weakest  alive,  yea,  could  I  lift  it  up 
as  a  trumpet,  I  would  sound  a  retreat  from  our  unnatural  contentions, 
and  irreligious  strivings  for  religion."— Archbishop  Leighton,  1669. 

GENTLEMEN, -The  position  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland  is  now  one  of  considerable  difficulty; 
not  only  the  credit  of  the  Church,  not  only  the  credit 
of  Christianity,  but  to  some  extent  also  that  of  the 
national  character,  is  at  stake.  You  have  just  gained 
a  great  victory,  in  spite  of  an  opposition  neither  very 
logical  nor  very  generous;  you  have  succeeded  in 
effecting,  by  quiet  constitutional  processes,  a  great  re- 
form, which  brings  your  Church  somewhat  nearer  in 
character  to  what  is  required  by  your  Dissenting 
brethren.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  you  can 
prove  yourselves  as  generous  as  you  have  been  wise 
and  patient.  And  the  position,  as  I  say,  is  one  of 
difficulty.  Many,  doubtless,  left  the  Church  for  a 
reason  which  is  now  removed;  many  have  joined 
other  sects  who  would  rather  have  joined  themselves 
with  you,  had  you  been  then  as  you  now  are;  and  for 
these  you  are  bound  to  render  as  easy  as  may  be  the 

229 


AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 

way  of  reconciliation,  and  show,  by  some  notable  ac- 
tion, the  reality  of  your  own  desire  for  Peace.  But  I 
am  not  unaware  that  there  are  others,  and  those  pos- 
sibly a  majority,  who  hold  very  different  opinions— 
who  regard  the  old  quarrel  as  still  competent,  or  have 
found  some  new  reason  for  dissent;  and  from  these 
the  Church,  if  she  makes  such  an  advance  as  she  ought 
to  make,  in  all  loyalty  and  charity,  may  chance  to  meet 
that  most  sensible  of  insults— ridicule,  in  return  for  an 
honest  offer  of  reconciliation.  I  am  not  unaware,  also, 
that  there  is  yet  another  ground  of  difficulty;  and  that 
those  even  who  would  be  most  ready  to  hold  the  cause 
of  offence  as  now  removed  will  find  it  hard  to  forget 
the  past— will  continue  to  think  themselves  unjustly 
used— will  not  be  willing  to  come  back,  as  though 
they  were  repentant  offenders,  among  those  who  de- 
layed the  reform  and  quietly  enjoyed  their  benefices, 
while  they  bore  the  heat  and  burthen  of  the  day  in  a 
voluntary  exile  for  the  Truth's  sake. 

In  view  of  so  many  elements  of  difficulty,  no  intelli- 
gent person  can  be  free  from  apprehension  for  the 
result;  and  you,  gentlemen,  may  be  perhaps  more 
ready  now  to  receive  advice,  to  hear  and  weigh  the 
opinion  of  one  who  is  free,  because  he  writes  without 
name,  than  you  would  be  at  any  juncture  less  critical. 
There  is  now  a  hope,  at  least,  that  some  term  may 
be  put  to  our  more  clamorous  dissensions.  Those  who 
are  at  all  open  to  a  feeling  of  national  disgrace  look 
eagerly  forward  to  such  a  possibility;  they  have  been 
witnesses  already  too  long  to  the  strife  that  has  divided 
this  small  corner  of  Christendom ;  and  they  cannot  re- 
member without  shame  that  there  has  been  as  much 

230 


OF  THE   CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND 

noise,  as  much  recrimination,  as  much  severance  of 
friends,  about  mere  logical  abstractions  in  our  remote 
island,  as  would  have  sufficed  for  the  great  dogmatic 
battles  of  the  Continent.  It  would  be  difficult  to  ex- 
aggerate the  pity  that  fills  the  heart  at  such  a  reflection ; 
at  the  thought  of  how  this  neck  of  barren  hills  between 
two  inclement  seaways  has  echoed  for  three  centuries 
with  the  uproar  of  sectarian  battle;  of  how  the  east 
wind  has  carried  out  the  sound  of  our  shrill  disputa- 
tions into  the  desolate  Atlantic,  and  the  west  wind  has 
borne  it  over  the  German  Ocean,  as  though  it  would 
make  all  Europe  privy  to  how  well  we  Scottish  breth- 
ren abide  together  in  unity.  It  is  not  a  bright  page  in 
the  annals  of  a  small  country :  it  is  not  a  pleasant  com- 
mentary on  the  Christianity  that  we  profess;  there  is 
something  in  it  pitiful,  as  I  have  said,  for  the  pitiful 
man,  but  bitterly  humorous  for  others.  How  much 
time  we  have  lost,  how  much  of  the  precious  energy 
and  patience  of  good  men  we  have  exhausted,  on  these 
trivial  quarrels,  it  would  be  nauseous  to  consider;  we. 
know  too  much  already  when  we  know  the  facts  in 
block;  we  know  enough  to  make  us  hide  our  heads 
for  shame,  and  grasp  gladly  at  any  present  humiliation, 
if  it  would  ensure  a  little  more  quiet,  a  little  more 
charity,  a  little  more  brotherly  love  in  the  distant 
future. 

And  it  is  with  this  before  your  eyes  that,  as  I  feel 
certain,  you  are  now  addressing  yourselves  to  the  con- 
sideration of  this  important  crisis.  It  is  with  a  sense 
of  the  blackness  of  this  discredit  upon  the  national 
character  and  national  Christianity  that  not  you  alone 
but  many  of  other  Churches  are  now  setting  them- 

231 


AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 

selves  to  square  their  future  course  with  the  exigencies 
of  the  new  position  of  sects;  and  it  is  with  you  that 
the  responsibility  remains.  The  obligation  lies  ever  on 
the  victor;  and  just  so  surely  as  you  have  succeeded 
in  the  face  of  captious  opposition  in  carrying  forth  the 
substance  of  a  reform  of  which  others  had  despaired, 
just  as  surely  does  it  lie  upon  you  as  a  duty  to  take 
such  steps  as  shall  make  that  reform  available,  not  to 
you  only,  but  to  all  your  brethren  who  will  consent  to 
profit  by  it;  not  only  to  all  the  clergy,  but  to  the  cause 
of  decency  and  peace,  throughout  your  native  land. 
It  is  earnestly  hoped  that  you  may  show  yourselves 
worthy  of  a  great  opportunity,  and  do  more  for  the 
public  minds  by  the  example  of  one  act  of  generosity 
and  humility  than  you  could  do  by  an  infinite  series  of 
sermons. 

Without  doubt,  it  is  your  intention,  on  the  earliest 
public  opportunity,  to  make  some  advance.  Without 
doubt,  it  is  your  purpose  to  improve  the  advantage 
you  have  gained,  and  to  press  upon  those  who  quitted 
your  communion  some  thirty  years  ago  your  great  de- 
sire to  be  once  more  united  to  them.  This,  at  least, 
will  find  a  place  in  the  most  unfriendly  programme 
you  can  entertain;  and  if  there  are  any  in  the  Free 
Church  (as  I  doubt  not  there  are  some)  who  seceded, 
not  so  much  from  any  dislike  to  the  just  supremacy  of 
the  law,  as  from  a  belief  that  the  law  in  these  ecclesi- 
astical matters  was  applied  unjustly,  I  know  well  that 
you  will  be  most  eager  to  receive  them  back  again ;  I 
know  well  that  you  will  not  let  any  petty  vanity,  any 
scruple  of  worldly  dignity,  stand  between  them  and 
their  honourable  return.     If,  therefore,  there  were  no 

232 


OF  THE  CHURCH   OF  SCOTLAND 

more  to  be  done  than  to  display  to  these  voluntary 
exiles  the  deep  sense  of  your  respect  for  their  position, 
this  appeal  would  be  unnecessary,  and  you  might  be 
left  to  the  guidance  of  your  own  good  feeling. 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  need  of  something 
more;  it  seems  to  me,  and  I  think  that  it  will  seem  so 
to  you  also,  that  you  must  go  even  further  if  you 
would  be  equal  to  the  importance  of  the  situation.  If 
there  are  any  among  the  Dissenters  whose  consciences 
are  so  far  satisfied  with  the  provisions  of  the  recent 
Act  that  they  could  now  return  to  your  communion, 
to  such,  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  you  stand  in  a  posi- 
tion of  great  delicacy.  The  conduct  of  these  men  you 
have  so  far  justified;  you  have  tacitly  admitted  that 
there  was  some  ground  for  dissatisfaction  with  the 
former  condition  of  the  Church;  and  though  you  may 
still  judge  those  to  have  been  over-scrupulous  who 
were  moved  by  this  imperfection  to  secede,  instead  of 
waiting  patiently  with  you  until  it  could  be  remedied 
by  peaceful  means,  you  must  not  forget  that  it  is  the 
strong  stomach,  according  to  Saint  Paul,  that  is  to  con- 
sider the  weak,  and  should  come  forward  to  meet 
these  brethren  with  something  better  than  compliments 
upon  your  lips.  Observe,  I  speak  only  of  those  who 
would  now  see  their  way  back  to  your  communion 
with  a  clear  conscience;  it  is  their  conduct,  and  their 
conduct  alone,  that  you  have  justified,  and  therefore  it 
is  only  for  them  that  your  special  generosity  is  here 
solicited.  But  towards  them,  if  there  are  any  such, 
your  countrymen  would  desire  to  see  you  behave  with 
all  consideration.  I  do  not  pretend  to  lay  before  you 
any  definite  scheme  of  action;  I  wish  only  to  let  you 

233 


AN   APPEAL  TO  THE   CLERGY 

understand  what  thoughts  are  busy  in  the  heads  of 
some  outside  your  councils,  so  that  you  may  take  this 
also  into  consideration  when  you  come  to  decide.  And 
this,  roughly,  is  how  it  appears  to  these:  These  good 
men  have  exposed  themselves  to  the  chance  of  hard- 
ship for  the  sake  of  their  scruples,  whilst  you,  being 
of  a  stronger  stomach,  continued  to  enjoy  the  security 
of  national  endowments.  Some  of  you  occupy  the 
very  livings  which  they  resigned  for  conscience'  sake. 
To  others  preferment  has  fallen  which  would  have 
fallen  to  them  had  they  been  still  eligible.  If,  then, 
any  of  them  are  now  content  to  return,  you  are  bound, 
if  not  in  justice,  then  in  honour,  to  do  all  that  you  can 
to  testify  your  respect  for  brave  conviction,  and  to 
repair  to  them  such  losses  as  they  may  have  suffered, 
whether  for  their  first  secession  or  their  second.  You 
owe  a  special  duty,  not  only  to  the  courage  that  left 
the  Church,  but  to  the  wisdom  and  moderation  that 
now  returns  to  it.  And  your  sense  of  this  duty  will 
find  a  vent  not  only  in  word  but  in  action.  You  will 
facilitate  their  return  not  only  by  considerate  and 
brotherly  language,  but  by  pecuniary  aid;  you  will 
seek,  by  some  new  endowment  scheme,  to  preserve 
for  them  their  ecclesiastical  status.  That  they  have  no 
claim  will  be  their  strongest  claim  on  your  considera- 
tion. Many  of  you,  if  not  all,  will  set  apart  some  share 
out  of  your  slender  livings  for  their  assistance  and  sup- 
port; you  will  give  them  what  you  can  afford;  and 
you  will  say  to  them,  as  you  do  so,  what  I  dare  say  to 
you,  that  what  you  give  is  theirs— not  only  in  honour 
but  in  justice. 
For  you  know  that  the  justice  which  should  rule  the 
234 


OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND 

dealings  of  Christians,  how  much  more  of  Christian 
ministers,  is  not  as  the  justice  of  courts  of  law  or 
equity;  and  those  who  profess  the  morality  of  Jesus 
Christ  have  abjured,  in  that  profession,  all  that  can  be 
urged  by  policy  or  worldly  prudence.  From  them  we 
can  accept  no  half-hearted  and  calculating  generosity; 
they  must  make  haste  to  be  liberal;  they  must  catch 
with  eagerness  at  all  opportunities  of  service,  and  the 
mere  whisper  of  an  obligation  should  be  to  them  more 
potent  than  the  decree  of  a  court  to  others  who  make 
profession  of  a  less  stringent  code.  And  remember 
that  it  lies  with  you  to  show  to  the  world  that  Chris- 
tianity is  something  more  than  a  verbal  system.  In  the 
lapse  of  generations  men  grow  weary  of  unsupported 
precept.  They  may  wait  long,  and  keep  long  in 
memory  the  bright  doings  of  former  days,  but  they 
will  weary  at  the  last;  they  will  begin  to  trouble  you 
for  your  credentials;  if  you  cannot  give  them  miracles, 
they  will  demand  virtue;  if  you  cannot  heal  the  sick, 
they  will  call  upon  you  for  some  practice  of  the  Chris- 
tian ethics.  Thus  people  will  knock  often  at  a  door  if 
only  it  be  opened  to  them  now  and  again ;  but  if  the 
door  remains  closed  too  long,  they  will  judge  the 
house  uninhabited  and  go  elsewhere.  And  thus  it  is 
that  a  season  of  persecution,  constantly  endured,  re- 
vives the  fainting  confidence  of  the  people,  and  some 
centuries  of  prosperity  may  prepare  a  Church  for  ruin. 
You  have  here  at  your  hand  an  opportunity  to  do  more 
for  the  credit  of  your  Christianity  than  ever  you  could 
do  by  visions,  miracles,  or  prophecies.  A  sacrifice  such 
as  this  would  be  better  worth,  as  I  said  before,  than 
many  sermons;  and  there  is  a  disposition  in  mankind 

235 


AN   APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 

that  would  ennoble  it  beyond  much  that  is  more  osten-i 
tatious ;  for  men,  whether  lay  or  clerical,  suffer  better 
the  flame  of  the  stake  than  a  daily  inconvenience  or  a 
pointed  sneer,  and  will  not  readily  be  martyred  without 
some  external  circumstance  and  a  concourse  looking 
on.  And  you  need  not  fear  that  your  virtue  will  be 
thrown  away;  the  people  of  Scotland  will  be  quick  to 
understand,  in  default  of  visible  fire  and  halter,  that 
you  have  done  a  brave  action  for  Christianity  and  the 
national  weal;  and  if  they  are  spared  in  the  future  any 
of  the  present  ignoble  jealousy  of  sect  against  sect, 
they  will  not  forget  that  to  that  end  you  gave  of  your 
household  comfort  and  stinted  your  children.  Even  if 
you  fail— ay,  and  even  if  there  were  not  found  one  to 
profit  by  your  invitation— your  virtue  would  still  have 
its  own  reward.  Your  predecessors  gave  their  lives 
for  ends  not  always  the  most  Christian;  they  were 
tempted,  and  slain  with  the  sword ;  they  wandered  in 
deserts  and  in  mountains,  in  caves  and  in  dens  of  the 
earth.  But  your  action  will  not  be  less  illustrious; 
what  you  may  have  to  suffer  may  be  a  small  thing  if 
the  world  will,  but  it  will  have  been  suffered  for  the 
cause  of  peace  and  brotherly  love. 

I  have  said  that  the  people  of  Scotland  will  be  quick 
to  appreciate  what  you  do.  You  know  well  that  they 
will  be  quick  also  to  follow  your  example.  But  the 
sign  should  come  from  you.  It  is  more  seemly  that 
you  should  lead  than  follow  in  this  matter.  Your 
predecessors  gave  the  word  from  their  free  pulpits 
which  was  to  brace  men  for  sectarian  strife:  it 
would  be  a  pleasant  sequel  if  the  word  came  from 
you  that  was  to  bid  them  bury  all  jealousy,  and  for- 

236 


OF  THE   CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND 

get  the  ugly  and  contentious  past  in  a  good  hope  of 
peace  to  come. 

What  is  said  in  these  few  pages  may  be  objected  to 
as  vague;  it  is  no  more  vague  than  the  position  seemed 
to  me  to  demand.  Each  man  must  judge  for  himself 
what  it  behoves  him  to  do  at  this  juncture,  and  the 
whole  Church  for  herself.  All  that  is  intended  in  this 
appeal  is  to  begin,  in  a  tone  of  dignity  and  disinter- 
estedness, the  consideration  of  the  question;  for  when 
such  matters  are  much  pulled  about  in  public  prints, 
and  have  been  often  discussed  from  many  different, 
and  not  always  from  very  high,  points  of  view,  there 
is  ever  a  tendency  that  the  decision  of  the  parties  may 
contract  some  taint  of  meanness  from  the  spirit  of  their 
critics.  All  that  is  desired  is  to  press  upon  you,  as 
ministers  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  some  sense  of  the 
high  expectation  with  which  your  country  looks  to  you 
at  this  time;  and  how  many  reasons  there  are  that  you 
should  show  an  example  of  signal  disinterestedness 
and  zeal  in  the  encouragement  that  you  give  to  return- 
ing brethren.  For,  first,  it  lies  with  you  to  clear  the 
Church  from  the  discredit  of  our  miserable  contentions ; 
and  surely  you  can  never  have  a  fairer  opportunity  to 
improve  her  claim  to  the  style  of  a  peacemaker.  Again, 
it  lies  with  you,  as  I  have  said,  to  take  the  first  step, 
and  prove  your  own  true  ardour  for  an  honourable 
union;  and  how  else  are  you  to  prove  it?  It  lies  with 
you,  moreover,  to  justify  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  the 
time  you  have  been  enjoying  your  benefices,  while 
these  others  have  voluntarily  shut  themselves  out  from 
all  participation  in  their  convenience;  and  how  else  are 
you  to  convince  the  world  that  there  was  not  some- 

237 


AN   APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 

thing  of  selfishness  in  your  motives  ?  It  lies  with  you, 
lastly,  to  keep  your  example  unspotted  before  your 
congregations ;  and  I  do  not  know  how  better  you  are 
to  do  that. 

It  is  never  a  thankful  office  to  offer  advice;  and  ad- 
vice is  the  more  unpalatable,  not  only  from  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  service  recommended,  but  often  from  its 
very  obviousness.  We  are  fired  with  anger  against 
those  who  make  themselves  the  spokesmen  of  plain 
obligations ;  for  they  seem  to  insult  us  as  they  advise. 
In  the  present  case  I  should  have  feared  to  waken  some 
such  feeling,  had  it  not  been  that  I  was  addressing 
myself  to  a  body  of  special  men  on  a  very  special  occa- 
sion. I  know  too  much  of  the  history  of  ideas  to 
imagine  that  the  sentiments  advocated  in  this  appeal 
are  peculiar  to  me  and  a  few  others.  I  am  confident 
that  your  own  minds  are  already  busy  with  similar 
reflections.  But  I  know  at  the  same  time  how  difficult 
it  is  for  one  man  to  speak  to  another  in  such  a  matter; 
how  he  is  withheld  by  all  manner  of  personal  consider- 
ations, and  dare  not  propose  what  he  has  nearest  his 
heart,  because  the  other  has  a  larger  family  or  a  smaller 
stipend,  or  is  older,  more  venerable,  and  more  con- 
scientious than  himself;  and  it  is  in  view  of  this  that  I 
have  determined  to  profit  by  the  freedom  of  an  anony- 
mous writer,  and  give  utterance  to  what  many  of  you 
would  have  uttered  already,  had  they  been  (as  I  am) 
apart  from  the  battle.  It  is  easy  to  be  virtuous  when 
one's  own  convenience  is  not  affected ;  and  it  is  no  shame 
to  any  man  to  follow  the  advice  of  an  outsider  who  owns 
that,  while  he  sees  which  is  the  better  part,  he  might  not 
have  the  courage  to  profit  himself  by  this  opinion. 

238 


OF  THE   CHURCH   OF  SCOTLAND 


[Note  for  the  Laity] 

The  foregoing  pages  have  been  in  type  since  the 
beginning  of  last  September.  I  have  been  advised  to 
give  them  to  the  public ;  and  it  is  only  necessary  to  add 
that  nothing  of  all  that  has  taken  place  since  they  were 
written  has  made  me  modify  an  opinion  or  so  much 
as  change  a  word.  The  question  is  not  one  that  can  be 
altered  by  circumstances. 

I  need  not  tell  the  laity  that  with  them  this  matter 
ultimately  rests.  Whether  we  regard  it  as  a  question 
of  mere  expense  or  as  a  question  of  good  feeling  against 
ill  feeling,  the  solution  must  come  from  the  Church 
members.  The  lay  purse  is  the  long  one;  and  if  the 
lay  opinion  does  not  speak  from  so  high  a  place,  it 
speaks  all  the  week  through  and  with  innumerable 
voices.  Trumpets  and  captains  are  all  very  well  in 
their  way;  but  if  the  trumpets  were  ever  so  clear,  and 
the  captains  as  bold  as  lions,  it  is  still  the  army  that 
must  take  the  fort. 

The  laymen  of  the  Church  have  here  a  question  be- 
fore them,  on  the  answering  of  which,  as  I  still  think, 
many  others  attend.  If  the  Established  Church  could 
throw  off  its  lethargy,  and  give  the  Dissenters  some 
speaking  token  of  its  zeal  for  union,  1  still  think  that 
union,  to  some  extent,  would  be  the  result.  There  is 
a  motion  tabled  (as  I  suppose  all  know)  for  the  next 
meeting  of  the  General  Assembly;  but  something  more 
than  motions  must  be  tabled,  and  something  more 
must  be  given  than  votes.  It  lies  practically  with  the 
laymen,  by  a  new  endowment  scheme,  to  put  the 

239 


AN   APPEAL  TO  THE  CLERGY 

Church  right  with  the  world  in  two  ways,  so  that 
those  who  left  it  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  and  who 
may  now  be  willing  to  return,  shall  lose  neither  in 
money  nor  in  ecclesiastical  status.  At  the  outside, 
what  will  they  have  to  do?  They  will  have  to  do  for 
(say)  ten  years  what  the  laymen  of  the  Free  Church 
have  done  cheerfully  ever  since  1843. 
February  12,  iSy^. 


LITERARY  PAPERS 


LITERARY  PAPERS 


ON  SOME  TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE  IN  LITERATURE  ^ 

THERE  is  nothing  more  disenchanting  to  man  than 
to  be  shown  the  springs  and  mechanism  of  any 
art.  All  our  arts  and  occupations  lie  wholly  on  the 
surface;  it  is  on  the  surface  that  we  perceive  their 
beauty,  fitness,  and  significance;  and  to  pry  below  is 
to  be  appalled  by  their  emptiness  and  shocked  by  the 
coarseness  of  the  strings  and  pulleys.  In  a  similar 
way,  psychology  itself,  when  pushed  to  any  nicety, 
discovers  an  abhorrent  baldness,  but  rather  from  the 
fault  of  our  analysis  than  from  any  poverty  native  to 
the  mind.  And  perhaps  in  aesthetics  the  reason  is  the 
same :  those  disclosures  which  seem  fatal  to  the  dignity 
of  art  seem  so  perhaps  only  in  the  proportion  of  our 
ignorance ;  and  those  conscious  and  unconscious  artifices 
which  it  seems  unworthy  of  the  serious  artist  to  em- 
ploy were  yet,  if  we  had  the  power  to  trace  them  to 
their  springs,  indications  of  a  delicacy  of  the  sense 
finer  than  we  conceive,  and  hints  of  ancient  harmonies 

1  First  published  in  the  Contemporary  RevUw,  April,  1885. 
243 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

in  nature.  This  ignorance  at  least  is  largely  irremedi- 
able. We  shall  never  learn  the  affinities  of  beauty,  for 
they  lie  too  deep  in  nature  and  too  far  back  in  the  mys- 
terious history  of  man.  The  amateur,  in  consequence, 
will  always  grudgingly  receive  details  of  method,  which 
can  be  stated  but  never  can  wholly  be  explained; 
nay,  on  the  principle  laid  down  in  "Hudibras,"  that 

"Still  the  less  they  understand, 
The  more  they  admire  the  sleight-of-hand," 

many  are  conscious  at  each  new  disclosure  of  a  diminu- 
tion in  the  ardour  of  their  pleasure.  I  must  therefore 
warn  that  well-known  character,  the  general  reader,  that 
I  am  here  embarked  upon  a  most  distasteful  business : 
taking  down  the  picture  from  the  wall  and  looking  on 
the  back;  and,  like  the  inquiring  child,  pulling  the  mu- 
sical cart  to  pieces. 

I.  Choice  of  Words.— The.  art  of  literature  stands 
apart  from  among  its  sisters,  because  the  material  in 
which  the  literary  artist  works  is  the  dialect  of  life; 
hence,  on  the  one  hand,  a  strange  freshness  and  im- 
mediacy of  address  to  the  public  mind,  which  is  ready 
prepared  to  understand  it;  but  hence,  on  the  other,  a 
singular  limitation.  The  sister  arts  enjoy  the  use  of  a 
plastic  and  ductile  material,  like  the  modeller's  clay; 
literature  alone  is  condemned  to  work  in  mosaic  with 
finite  and  quite  rigid  words.  You  have  seen  these 
blocks,  dear  to  the  nursery:  this  one  a  pillar,  that  a 
pediment,  a  third  a  window  or  a  vase.  It  is  with 
blocks  of  just  such  arbitrary  size  and  figure  that  the 
literary  architect  is  condemned  to  design  the  palace 
of  his  art.     Nor  is  this  all;  for  since  these  blocks,  or 

244 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE  IN   LITERATURE 

words,  are  the  acknowledged  currency  of  our  daily 
affairs,  there  are  here  possible  none  of  those  suppres- 
sions by  which  other  arts  obtain  relief,  continuity,  and 
vigour:  no  hieroglyphic  touch,  no  smoothed  impasto, 
no  inscrutable  shadow,  as  in  painting;  no  blank  wall, 
as  in  architecture;  but  every  word,  phrase,  sentence, 
and  paragraph  must  move  in  a  logical  progression,  and 
convey  a  definite  conventional  import. 

Now  the  first  merit  which  attracts  in  the  pages  of  a 
good  writer,  or  the  talk  of  a  brilliant  conversationalist, 
is  the  apt  choice  and  contrast  of  the  words  employed. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  strange  art  to  take  these  blocks,  rudely 
conceived  for  the  purpose  of  the  market  or  the  bar, 
and  by  tact  of  application  touch  them  to  the  finest 
meanings  and  distinctions,  restore  to  them  their  primal 
energy,  wittily  shift  them  to  another  issue,  or  make  of 
them  a  drum  to  rouse  the  passions.  But  though  this 
form  o^  merit  is  without  doubt  the  most  sensible  and 
seizing,  it  is  far  from  being  equally  present  in  all 
writers.  The  effect  of  words  in  Shakespeare,  their 
singular  justice,  significance,  and  poetic  charm,  is 
different,  indeed,  from  the  effect  of  words  in  Addison 
or  Fielding.  Or,  to  take  an  example  nearer  home,  the 
words  in  Carlyle  seem  electrified  into  an  energy  of 
lineament,  like  the  faces  of  men  furiously  moved; 
whilst  the  words  in  Macaulay,  apt  enough  to  convey 
his  meaning,  harmonious  enough  in  sound,  yet  glide 
from  the  memory  like  undistinguished  elements  in  a 
general  effect.  But  the  first  class  of  writers  have  no 
monopoly  of  literary  merit.  There  is  a  sense  in  which 
Addison  is  superior  to  Carlyle;  a  sense  in  which  Cicero 
is  better  than  Tacitus,  in  which  Voltaire  excels  Mon- 

245 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

taigne:  it  certainly  lies  not  in  the  choice  of  words;  it 
lies  not  in  the  interest  or  value  of  the  matter;  it  lies 
not  in  force  of  intellect,  of  poetry,  or  of  humour.  The 
three  first  are  but  infants  to  the  three  second;  and  yet 
each,  in  a  particular  point  of  literary  art,  excels  his 
superior  in  the  whole.     What  is  that  point  ? 

2.  The  JVeb.—Litemtuve,  although  it  stands  apart 
by  reason  of  the  great  destiny  and  general  use  of  its 
medium  in  the  affairs  of  men,  is  yet  an  art  like  other 
arts.  Of  these  we  may  distinguish  two  great  classes : 
those  arts,  like  sculpture,  painting,  acting,  which  are 
representative,  or,  as  used  to  be  said  very  clumsily, 
imitative;  and  those,  like  architecture,  music,  and  the 
dance,  which  are  self-sufficient,  and  merely  presenta- 
tive.  Each  class,  in  right  of  this  distinction,  obeys 
principles  apart;  yet  both  may  claim  a  common  ground 
of  existence,  and  it  may  be  said  with  sufficient  justice 
that  the  motive  and  end  of  any  art  whatever  is  to  make 
a  pattern;  a  pattern,  it  may  be,  of  colours,  of  sounds, 
of  changing  attitudes,  geometrical  figures,  or  imitative 
lines;  but  still  a  pattern.  That  is  the  plane  on  which 
these  sisters  meet;  it  is  by  this  that  they  are  arts;  and 
if  it  be  well  they  should  at  times  forget  their  childish 
origin,  addressing  their  intelligence  to  virile  tasks,  and 
performing  unconsciously  that  necessary  function  of 
their  life,  to  make  a  pattern,  it  is  still  imperative  that 
the  pattern  shall  be  made. 

Music  and  literature,  the  two  temporal  arts,  contrive 
their  pattern  of  sounds  in  time ;  or,  in  other  words,  of 
sounds  and  pauses.  Communication  may  be  made  in 
broken  words,  the  business  of  life  be  carried  on  with 
substantives  alone;  but  that  is  not  what  we  call  litera- 

246 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

ture;  and  the  true  business  of  the  literary  artist  is  to 
plait  or  weave  his  meaning,  involving  it  around  itself; 
so  that  each  sentence,  by  successive  phrases,  shall  first 
come  into  a  kind  of  knot,  and  then,  after  a  moment  of 
suspended  meaning,  solve  and  clear  itself.  In  every 
properly  constructed  sentence  there  should  be  observed 
this  knot  or  hitch ;  so  that  (however  delicately)  we  are 
led  to  foresee,  to  expect,  and  then  to  welcome  the  suc- 
cessive phrases.  The  pleasure  may  be  heightened  by  an 
element  of  surprise,  as,  very  grossly,  in  the  common 
figure  of  the  antithesis,  or,  with  much  greater  subtlety, 
where  an  antithesis  is  first  suggested  and  then  deftly 
evaded.  Each  phrase,  besides,  is  to  be  comely  in 
itself;  and  between  the  implication  and  the  evolution 
of  the  sentence  there  should  be  a  satisfying  equipoise 
of  sound ;  for  nothing  more  often  disappoints  the  ear 
than  a  sentence  solemnly  and  sonorously  prepared,  and 
hastily  and  weakly  finished.  Nor  should  the  balance 
be  too  striking  and  exact,  for  the  one  rule  is  to  be 
infinitely  various ;  to  interest,  to  disappoint,  to  surprise, 
and  yet  still  to  gratify;  to  be  ever  changing,  as  it  were, 
the  stitch,  and  yet  still  to  give  the  effect  of  an  ingeni- 
ous neatness. 

The  conjurer  juggles  with  two  oranges,  and  our 
pleasure  in  beholding  him  springs  from  this,  that  neither 
is  for  an  instant  overlooked  or  sacrificed.  So  with  the 
writer.  His  pattern,  which  is  to  please  the  supersen- 
sua!  ear,  is  yet  addressed,  throughout  and  first  of  all, 
to  the  demands  of  logic.  Whatever  be  the  obscurities, 
whatever  the  intricacies  of  the  argument,  the  neatness 
of  the  fabric  must  not  suffer,  or  the  artist  has  been 
proved  unequal  to  his  design.      And,   on  the  other 

247 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

hand,  no  form  of  words  must  be  selected,  no  knot 
must  be  tied  among  the  phrases,  unless  knot  and  word 
be  precisely  what  is  wanted  to  forward  and  illuminate 
the  argument;  for  to  fail  m  this  is  to  swindle  in  the 
game.  The  genius  of  prose  rejects  the  cheville  no  less 
emphatically  than  the  laws  of  verse;  and  the  cheville, 
I  should  perhaps  explain  to  some  of  my  readers,  is  any 
meaningless  or  very  watered  phrase  employed  to  strike 
a  balance  in  the  sound.  Pattern  and  argument  live  in 
each  other;  and  it  is  by  the  brevity,  clearness,  charm, 
or  emphasis  of  the  second,  that  we  judge  the  strength 
and  fitness  of  the  first. 

Style  is  synthetic;  and  the  artist,  seeking,  so  to 
speak,  a  peg  to  plait  about,  takes  up  at  once  two  or 
more  elements  or  two  or  more  views  of  the  subject  in 
hand;  combines,  implicates,  and  contrasts  them;  and 
while,  in  one  sense,  he  was  merely  seeking  an  occa- 
sion for  the  necessary  knot,  he  will  be  found,  in  the 
other,  to  have  greatly  enriched  the  meaning,  or  to 
have  transacted  the  work  of  two  sentences  In  the  space 
of  one.  In  the  change  from  the  successive  shallow 
statements  of  the  old  chronicler  to  the  dense  and  lumi- 
nous flow  of  highly  synthetic  narrative,  there  is  im- 
plied a  vast  amount  of  both  philosophy  and  wit.  The 
philosophy  we  clearly  see,  recognising  in  the  synthetic 
writer  a  far  more  deep  and  stimulating  view  of  life, 
and  a  far  keener  sense  of  the  generation  and  affinity  of 
events.  The  wit  we  might  imagine  to  be  lost;  but  it 
is  not  so,  for  it  is  just  that  wit,  these  perpetual  nice 
contrivances,  these  difficulties  overcome,  this  double 
purpose  attained,  these  two  oranges  kept  simultane- 
ously dancing  in  the  air,  that,  consciously  or  not,  afford 

248 


TECHNICAL   ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

the  reader  his  delight.  Nay,  and  this  wit,  so  little 
recognised,  is  the  necessary  organ  of  that  philosophy 
which  we  so  much  admire.  That  style  is  therefore 
the  most  perfect,  not,  as  fools  say,  which  is  the  most 
natural,  for  the  most  natural  is  the  disjointed  babble  of 
the  chronicler;  but  which  attains  the  highest  degree  of 
elegant  and  pregnant  implication  unobtrusively;  or  if 
obtrusively,  then  with  the  greatest  gain  to  sense  and 
vigour.  Even  the  derangement  of  the  phrases  from 
their  (so-called)  natural  order  is  luminous  for  the  mind ; 
and  it  is  by  the  means  of  such  designed  reversal  that 
the  elements  of  a  judgment  may  be  most  pertinently 
marshalled,  or  the  stages  of  a  complicated  action  most 
perspicuously  bound  into  one. 

The  web,  then,  or  the  pattern:  a  web  at  once  sensu- 
ous and  logical,  an  elegant  and  pregnant  texture:  that 
is  style,  that  is  the  foundation  of  the  art  of  literature. 
Books  indeed  continue  to  be  read,  for  the  interest  of 
the  fact  or  fable,  in  which  this  quality  is  poorly  repre- 
sented, but  still  it  will  be  there.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  how  many  do  we  continue  to  peruse  and  reperuse 
with  pleasure  whose  only  merit  is  the  elegance  of  tex- 
ture }  I  am  tempted  to  mention  Cicero;  and  since  Mr. 
Anthony  Trollope  is  dead,  I  will.  It  is  a  poor  diet  for 
the  mind,  a  very  colourless  and  toothless  "  criticism  of 
hfe";  but  we  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  a  most  intricate 
and  dexterous  pattern,  every  stitch  a  model  at  once  of 
elegance  and  of  good  sense;  and  the  two  oranges,  even 
if  one  of  them  be  rotten,  kept  dancing  with  inimitable 
grace. 

Up  to  this  moment  I  have  had  my  eye  mainly  upon 
prose;  for  though  in  verse  also  the  implication  of  the 

249 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

logical  texture  is  a  crowning  beauty,  yet  in  verse  it 
may  be  dispensed  with.  You  would  think  that  here 
was  a  death-blow  to  all  I  have  been  saying;  and  far 
from  that,  it  is  but  a  new  illustration  of  the  principle 
involved.  For  if  the  versifier  is  not  bound  to  weave  a 
pattern  of  his  own,  it  is  because  another  pattern  has 
been  formally  imposed  upon  him  by  the  laws  of  verse. 
For  that  is  the  essence  of  a  prosody.  Verse  may  be 
rhythmical;  it  may  be  merely  alliterative;  it  may,  like 
the  French,  depend  wholly  on  the  (quasi)  regular  re- 
currence of  the  rhyme;  or,  like  the  Hebrew,  it  may 
consist  in  the  strangely  fanciful  device  of  repeating 
the  same  idea.  It  does  not  matter  on  what  principle 
the  law  is  based,  so  it  be  a  law.  It  may  be  pure  con- 
vention; it  may  have  no  inherent  beauty;  all  that  we 
have  a  right  to  ask  of  any  prosody  is,  that  it  shall  lay 
down  a  pattern  for  the  writer,  and  that  what  it  lays 
down  shall  be  neither  too  easy  nor  too  hard.  Hence 
it  comes  that  it  is  much  easier  for  men  of  equal  facility 
to  write  fairly  pleasing  verse  than  reasonably  interest- 
ing prose;  for  in  prose  the  pattern  itself  has  to  be  in- 
vented, and  the  difficulties  first  created  before  they  can 
be  solved.  Hence,  again,  there  follows  the  peculiar 
greatness  of  the  true  versifier:  such  as  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  and  Victor  Hugo,  whom  I  place  beside  them  as 
versifier  merely,  not  as  poet.  These  not  only  knit  and 
knot  the  logical  texture  of  the  style  with  all  the  dex- 
terity and  strength  of  prose;  they  not  only  fill  up  the 
pattern  of  the  verse  with  infinite  variety  and  sober  wit; 
but  they  give  us,  besides,  a  rare  and  special  pleasure, 
by  the  art,  comparable  to  that  of  counterpoint,  with 
which  they  follow  at  the  same  time,  and  now  contrast, 

250 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN    LITERATURE 

and  now  combine,  the  double  pattern  of  the  texture 
and  the  verse.  Here  the  sounding  line  concludes;  a 
little  further  on,  the  well-knit  sentence;  and  yet  a  little 
further,  and  both  will  reach  their  solution  on  the  same 
ringing  syllable.  The  best  that  can  be  offered  by  the 
best  writer  of  prose  is  to  show  us  the  development  of 
the  idea  and  the  stylistic  pattern  proceed  hand  in  hand, 
sometimes  by  an  obvious  and  triumphant  effort,  some- 
times with  a  great  air  of  ease  and  nature.  The  writer 
of  verse,  by  virtue  of  conquering  another  difficulty, 
delights  us  with  a  new  series  of  triumphs.  He  fol- 
lows three  purposes  where  his  rival  followed  only  two ; 
and  the  change  is  of  precisely  the  same  nature  as  that 
from  melody  to  harmony.  Or  if  you  prefer  to  return 
to  the  juggler,  behold  him  now,  to  the  vastly  increased 
enthusiasm  of  the  spectators,  juggling  with  three 
oranges  instead  of  two.  Thus  it  is :  added  difficulty, 
added  beauty;  and  the  pattern,  with  every  fresh  ele- 
ment, becoming  more  interesting  in  itself. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  thought  that  verse  is  simply  an 
addition ;  something  is  lost  as  well  as  something  gained ; 
and  there  remains  plainly  traceable,  in  comparing  the 
best  prose  with  the  best  verse,  a  certain  broad  distinc- 
tion of  method  in  the  web.  Tight  as  the  versifier  may 
draw  the  knot  of  logic,  yet  for  the  ear  he  still  leaves 
the  tissue  of  the  sentence  floating  somewhat  loose.  In 
prose,  the  sentence  turns  upon  a  pivot,  nicely  balanced, 
and  fits  into  itself  with  an  obtrusive  neatness  like  a 
puzzle.  The  ear  remarks  and  is  singly  gratified  by  this 
return  and  balance;  while  in  verse  it  is  all  diverted  to 
the  measure.  To  find  comparable  passages  is  hard;  for 
either  the  versifier  is  hugely  the  superior  of  the  rival, 

251 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

or,  if  he  be  not,  and  still  persist  in  his  more  delicate 
enterprise,  he  fails  to  be  as  widely  his  inferior.  But 
let  us  select  them  from  the  pages  of  the  same  writer, 
one  who  was  ambidexter;  let  us  take,  for  instance. 
Rumour's  Prologue  to  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV,, 
a  fine  flourish  of  eloquence  in  Shakespeare's  second 
manner,  and  set  it  side  by  side  with  Falstaff's  praise  of 
sherris,  act  iv.  scene  i. ;  or  let  us  compare  the  beautiful 
prose  spoken  throughout  by  Rosalind  and  Orlando; 
compare,  for  example,  the  first  speech  of  all,  Orlando's 
speech  to  Adam,  with  what  passage  it  shall  please  you 
to  select— the  Seven  Ages  from  the  same  play,  or  even 
such  a  stave  of  nobility  as  Othello's  farewell  to  war; 
and  still  you  will  be  able  to  perceive,  if  you  have  an 
ear  for  that  class  of  music,  a  certain  superior  degree  of 
organisation  in  the  prose;  a  compacter  fitting  of  the 
parts;  a  balance  in  the  swing  and  the  return  as  of  a 
throbbing  pendulum.  We  must  not,  in  things  tem- 
poral, take  from  those  who  have  little,  the  little  that 
they  have ;  the  merits  of  prose  are  inferior,  but  they  are 
not  the  same;  it  is  a  little  kingdom,  but  an  independent. 
3.  Rhythm  of  the  Phrase.—Some  way  back,  I  used 
a  word  which  still  awaits  an  application.  Each  phrase, 
I  said,  was  to  be  comely;  but  what  is  a  comely  phrase  ? 
In  all  ideal  and  material  points,  literature,  being  a  repre- 
sentative art,  must  look  for  analogies  to  painting  and 
the  like;  but  in  what  is  technical  and  executive,  being 
a  temporal  art,  it  must  seek  for  them  in  music.  Each 
phrase  of  each  sentence,  like  an  air  or  a  recitative  in 
music,  should  be  so  artfully  compounded  out  of  long 
and  short,  out  of  accented  and  unaccented,  as  to  gratify 
the  sensual  ear.     And  of  this  the  ear  is  the  sole  judge. 

252 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  laws.  Even  in  our  accen- 
tual and  rhythmic  language  no  analysis  can  find  the 
secret  of  the  beauty  of  a  verse;  how  much  less,  then, 
of  those  phrases,  such  as  prose  is  built  of,  which  obey 
no  law  but  to  be  lawless  and  yet  to  please  ?  The  little 
that  we  know  of  verse  (and  for  my  part  I  owe  it  all  to 
my  friend  Professor  Fleeming  Jenkin)  is,  however, 
particularly  interesting  in  the  present  connection.  We 
have  been  accustomed  to  describe  the  heroic  line  as 
five  iambic  feet,  and  to  be  filled  with  pain  and  confu- 
sion whenever,  as  by  the  conscientious  schoolboy,  we 
have  heard  our  own  description  put  in  practice. 

**  All  night  I  the  dread  |  less  an  |  gel  un  |  pursued,"  i 

goes  the  schoolboy ;  but  though  we  close  our  ears,  we 
cling  to  our  definition,  in  spite  of  its  proved  and  naked 
insufficiency.  Mr.  Jenkin  was  not  so  easily  pleased, 
and  readily  discovered  that  the  heroic  line  consists  of 
four  groups,  or,  if  you  prefer  the  phrase,  contains  four 
pauses : 

"  AH  night  I  the  dreadless  \  angel  |  unpursued." 

Four  groups,  each  practically  uttered  as  one  word: 
the  first,  in  this  case,  an  iamb;  the  second,  an  amphi- 
brachys; the  third,  a  trochee;  and  the  fourth,  an  amphi- 
macer;  and  yet  our  schoolboy,  with  no  other  liberty 
but  that  of  inflicting  pain,  had  triumphantly  scanned  it 
as  five  iambs.  Perceive,  now,  this  fresh  richness  of 
intricacy  in  the  web ;  this  fourth  orange,  hitherto  unre- 
marked, but  still  kept  flying  with  the  others.  What 
had  seemed  to  be  one  thing  it  now  appears  is  two; 

1  Milton. 
253 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

and,  like  some  puzzle  in  arithmetic,  the  verse  is  made 
at  the  same  time  to  read  in  fives  and  to  read  in  fours. 

But  again,  four  is  not  necessary.  We  do  not,  indeed, 
find  verses  in  six  groups,  because  there  is  not  room  for 
six  in  the  ten  syllables;  and  we  do  not  find  verses  of 
two,  because  one  of  the  main  distinctions  of  verse 
from  prose  resides  in  the  comparative  shortness  of  the 
group ;  but  it  is  even  common  to  find  verses  of  three. 
Five  is  the  one  forbidden  number;  because  five  is  the 
number  of  the  feet;  and  if  five  were  chosen,  the  two 
patterns  would  coincide,  and  that  opposition  which  is 
the  life  of  verse  would  instantly  be  lost.  We  have 
here  a  clue  to  the  effect  of  polysyllables,  above  all  in 
Latin,  where  they  are  so  common  and  make  so  brave 
an  architecture  in  the  verse;  for  the  polysyllable  is  a 
group  of  Nature's  making.  If  but  some  Roman  would 
return  from  Hades  (Martial,  for  choice),  and  tell  me  by 
what  conduct  of  the  voice  these  thundering  verses 
should  be  uWtx&d—'' Aut  Lacedcemonium  Tarentum," 
for  a  case  in  point— 1  feel  as  if  I  should  enter  at  last 
into  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  best  of  human  verses. 

But,  again,  the  five  feet  are  all  iambic,  or  supposed 
to  be;  by  the  mere  count  of  syllables  the  four  groups 
cannot  be  all  iambic;  as  a  question  of  elegance,  I  doubt 
if  any  one  of  them  requires  to  be  so;  and  I  am  certain 
that  for  choice  no  two  of  them  should  scan  the  same. 
The  singular  beauty  of  the  verse  analysed  above  is  due, 
so  far  as  analysis  can  carry  us,  part,  indeed,  to  the 
clever  repetition  of  L,  D,  and  N,  but  part  to  this  variety 
of  scansion  in  the  groups.  The  groups  which,  like 
the  bar  in  music,  break  up  the  verse  for  utterance,  fall 
uniambically;    and  in  declaiming  a  so-called  iambic 

254 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE  IN   LITERATURE 

verse,  it  may  so  happen  that  we  never  utter  one 
iambic  foot.  And  yet  to  this  neglect  of  the  original 
beat  there  is  a  limit. 

"Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts,*'i 

is,  with  all  its  eccentricities,  a  good  heroic  line;  for 
though  it  scarcely  can  be  said  to  indicate  the  beat  of 
the  iamb,  it  certainly  suggests  no  other  measure  to  the 
ear.     But  begin 

"  Mother  Athens,  eye  of  Greece," 

or  merely  "Mother  Athens,"  and  the  game  is  up,  for 
the  trochaic  beat  has  been  suggested.  The  eccentric 
scansion  of  the  groups  is  an  adornment;  but  as  soon 
as  the  original  beat  has  been  forgotten,  they  cease  im- 
plicitly to  be  eccentric.  Variety  is  what  is  sought;  but 
if  we  destroy  the  original  mould,  one  of  the  terms  of 
this  variety  is  lost,  and  we  fall  back  on  sameness. 
Thus,  both  as  to  the  arithmetical  measure  of  the  verse, 
and  the  degree  of  regularity  in  scansion,  we  see  the 
laws  of  prosody  to  have  one  common  purpose:  to 
keep  alive  the  opposition  of  two  schemes  simultane- 
ously followed;  to  keep  them  notably  apart,  though 
still  coincident;  and  to  balance  them  with  such  judicial 
nicety  before  the  reader,  that  neither  shall  be  unper- 
ceived  and  neither  signally  prevail. 

The  rule  of  rhythm  in  prose  is  not  so  intricate.  Here, 
too,  we  write  in  groups,  or  phrases,  as  I  prefer  to  call 
them,  for  the  prose  phrase  is  greatly  longer  and  is  much 
more  n(5nchalantly  uttered  than  the  group  in  verse;  so 

1  Milton. 
255 


LITERARY    PAPERS 

that  not  only  is  there  a  greater  interval  of  continuous 
sound  between  the  pauses,  but,  for  that  very  reason, 
word  is  linked  more  readily  to  word  by  a  more  sum- 
mary enunciation.  Still,  the  phrase  is  the  strict  analogue 
of  the  group,  and  successive  phrases,  like  successive 
groups,  must  differ  openly  in  length  and  rhythm.  The 
rule  of  scansion  in  verse  is  to  suggest  no  measure  but 
the  one  in  hand ;  in  prose,  to  suggest  no  measure  at  all. 
Prose  must  be  rhythmical,  and  it  may  be  as  much  so  as 
you  will;  but  it  must  not  be  metrical.  It  may  be  any- 
thing, but  it  must  not  be  verse.  A  single  heroic  line 
may  very  well  pass  and  not  disturb  the  somewhat 
larger  stride  of  the  prose  style;  but  one  following  an- 
other will  produce  an  instant  impression  of  poverty, 
flatness,  and  disenchantment.  The  same  lines  delivered 
with  the  measured  utterance  of  verse  would  perhaps 
seem  rich  in  variety.  By  the  more  summary  enuncia- 
tion proper  to  prose,  as  to  a  more  distant  vision,  these 
niceties  of  difference  are  lost.  A  whole  verse  is  uttered 
as  one  phrase;  and  the  ear  is  soon  wearied  by  a  suc- 
cession of  groups  identical  in  length.  The  prose  writer, 
in  fact,  since  he  is  allowed  to  be  so  much  less  harmo- 
nious, is  condemned  to  a  perpetually  fresh  variety  of 
movement  on  a  larger  scale,  and  must  never  disap- 
point the  ear  by  the  trot  of  an  accepted  metre.  And 
this  obligation  is  the  third  orange  with  which  he  has  to 
juggle,  the  third  quality  which  the  prose  writer  must 
work  into  his  pattern  of  words.  It  may  be  thought 
perhaps  that  this  is  a  quality  of  ease  rather  than  a  fresh 
difficulty;  but  such  is  the  inherently  rhythmical  strain 
of  the  English  language,  that  the  bad  writer— and  must 
I  take  for  example  that  admired  friend  of  my  boyhood, 

256 


TECHNICAL   ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

Captain  Reid?— the  inexperienced  writer,  as  Dickens  in 
his  earlier  attempts  to  be  impressive,  and  the  jaded 
writer,  as  any  one  may  see  for  himself,  all  tend  to  fall 
at  once  into  the  production  of  bad  blank  verse.  And 
here  it  may  be  pertinently  asked,  Why  bad  ?  And  I 
suppose  it  might  be  enough  to  answer  that  no  man 
ever  made  good  verse  by  accident,  and  that  no  versej 
can  ever  sound  otherwise  than  trivial  when  uttered' 
with  the  delivery  of  prose.  But  we  can  go  beyond 
such  answers.  The  weak  side  of  verse  is  the  regu- 
larity of  the  beat,  which  in  itself  is  decidedly  less  im- 
pressive than  the  movement  of  the  nobler  prose;  and 
it  is  just  into  this  weak  side,  and  this  alone,  that  our 
careless  writer  falls.  A  peculiar  density  and  mass,  con- 
sequent on  the  nearness  of  the  pauses,  is  one  of  the 
chief  good  qualities  of  verse;  but  this  our  accidental 
versifier,  still  following  after  the  swift  gait  and  large 
gestures  of  prose,  does  not  so  much  as  aspire  to  imi- 
tate. Lastly,  since  he  remains  unconscious  that  he 
is  making  verse  at  all,  it  can  never  occur  to  him 
to  extract  those  effects  of  counterpoint  and  opposi- 
tion which  I  have  referred  to  as  the  final  grace  and 
justification  of  verse,  and,  I  may  add,  of  blank  verse 
in  particular. 

4.  Contents  of  the  Phrase.— Here  is  a  great  deal  of 
talk  about  rhythm— and  naturally;  for  in  our  canorous 
language  rhythm  is  always  at  the  door.  But  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  in  some  languages  this  element  is 
almost,  if  not  quite,  extinct,  and  that  in  our  own  it  is 
probably  decaying.  The  even  speech  of  many  educated 
Americans  sounds  the  note  of  danger.  I  should  see  it 
go  with  something  as  bitter  as  despair,  but  I  should  not 

257 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

be  desperate.  As  in  verse  no  element,  not  even  rhythm, 
is  necessary,  so,  in  prose  also,  other  sorts  of  beauty 
will  arise  and  take  the  place  and  play  the  part  of  those 
that  we  outlive.  The  beauty  of  the  expected  beat  in 
verse,  the  beauty  in  prose  of  its  larger  and  more  law- 
less melody,  patent  as  they  are  to  English  hearing,  are 
already  silent  in  the  ears  of  our  next  neighbours;  for 
in  France  the  oratorical  accent  and  the  pattern  of  the 
web  have  almost  or  altogether  succeeded  to  their  places ; 
and  the  French  prose  writer  would  be  astounded  at  the 
labours  of  his  brother  across  the  Channel,  and  how  a 
good  quarter  of  his  toil,  above  all  invita  Minerva,  is  to 
avoid  writing  verse.  So  wonderfully  far  apart  have 
races  wandered  in  spirit,  and  so  hard  it  is  to  under- 
stand the  literature  next  door! 

Yet  French  prose  is  distinctly  better  than  English; 
and  French  verse,  above  all  while  Hugo  lives,  it  will 
not  do  to  place  upon  one  side.  What  is  more  to  our 
purpose,  a  phrase  or  a  verse  in  French  is  easily  distin- 
guishable as  comely  or  uncomely.  There  is  then 
another  element  of  comeliness  hitherto  overlooked  in 
this  analysis :  the  contents  of  the  phrase.  Each  phrase 
in  literature  is  built  of  sounds,  as  each  phrase  in  music 
consists  of  notes.  One  sound  suggests,  echoes,  de- 
mands, and  harmonises  with  another;  and  the  art  of 
rightly  using  these  concordances  is  the  final  art  in 
literature.  It  used  to  be  a  piece  of  good  advice  to  all 
young  writers  to  avoid  alliteration ;  and  the  advice  was 
sound,  in  so  far  as  it  prevented  daubing.  None  the 
less  for  that,  was  it  abominable  nonsense,  and  the  mere 
raving  of  those  blindest  of  the  blind  who  will  not  see. 
The  beauty  of  the  contents  of  a  phrase,  or  of  a  sen- 

258 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE  IN   LITERATURE 

tence,  depends  implicitly  upon  alliteration  and  upon 
assonance.  The  vowel  demands  to  be  repeated;  the 
consonant  demands  to  be  repeated ;  and  both  cry  aloud 
to  be  perpetually  varied.  You  may  follow  the  adven- 
tures of  a  letter  through  any  passage  that  has  particu- 
larly pleased  you;  find  it,  perhaps,  denied  awhile,  to 
tantalise  the  ear;  find  it  fired  again  at  you  in  a  whole 
broadside;  or  find  it  pass  into  congenerous  sounds,  one 
liquid  or  labial  melting  away  into  another.  And  you 
will  find  another  and  much  stranger  circumstance. 
Literature  is  written  by  and  for  two  senses :  a  sort  of 
internal  ear,  quick  to  perceive  **  unheard  melodies " ; 
and  the  eye,  which  directs  the  pen  and  deciphers  the 
printed  phrase.  Well,  even  as  there  are  rhymes  for  the 
eye,  so  you  will  find  that  there  are  assonances  and 
alliterations ;  that  where  an  author  is  running  the  open 
A,  deceived  by  the  eye  and  our  strange  English  spelling, 
he  will  often  show  a  tenderness  for  the  flat  A;  and  that 
where  he  is  running  a  particular  consonant,  he  will  not 
improbably  rejoice  to  write  it  down  even  when  it  is 
mute  or  bears  a  different  value. 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  fresh  pattern— a  pattern,  to 
speak  grossly,  of  letters— which  makes  the  fourth 
preoccupation  of  the  prose  writer,  and  the  fifth  of  the 
versifier.  At  times  it  is  very  delicate  and  hard  to  per- 
ceive, and  then  perhaps  most  excellent  and  winning 
(1  say  perhaps) ;  but  at  times  again  the  elements  of  this 
literal  melody  stand  more  boldly  forward  and  usurp  the 
ear.  It  becomes,  therefore,  somewhat  a  matter  of  con- 
science to  select  examples;  and  as  I  cannot  very  well 
ask  the  reader  to  help  me,  I  shall  do  the  next  best  by 
giving  him  the  reason  or  the  history  of  each  selection. 

259 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

The  two  first,  one  in  prose,  one  in  verse,  I  chose  with- 
out previous  analysis,  simply  as  engaging  passages  that 
had  long  re-echoed  in  my  ear. 

"  I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  un- 
exercised and  unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and 
sees  her  adversary,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race  where  that 
immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not  without  dust  and 
heat."^  Down  to  "virtue,"  the  current  S  and  R  are 
both  announced  and  repeated  unobtrusively,  and  by 
way  of  a  grace-note  that  almost  inseparable  group  PVF 
is  given  entire.^  The  next  phrase  is  a  period  of  repose, 
almost  ugly  in  itself,  both  S  and  R  still  audible,  and  B 
given  as  the  last  fulfilment  of  PVF.  In  the  next  four 
phrases,  from  "that  never"  down  to  "run  for,"  the 
mask  is  thrown  off,  and,  but  for  a  slight  repetition  of 
the  F  and  V,  the  whole  matter  turns,  almost  too  obtru- 
sively, on  S  and  R ;  first  S  coming  to  the  front,  and 
then  R.  In  the  concluding  phrase  all  these  favourite 
letters,  and  even  the  flat  A,  a  timid  preference  for  which 
is  just  perceptible,  are  discarded  at  a  blow  and  in  a 
bundle;  and  to  make  the  break  more  obvious,  every 
word  ends  with  a  dental,  and  all  but  one  with  T,  for 
which  we  have  been  cautiously  prepared  since  the  be- 
ginning. The  singular  dignity  of  the  first  clause,  and 
this  hammer-stroke  of  the  last,  go  far  to  make  the  charm 
of  this  exquisite  sentence.  But  it  is  fair  to  own  that  S 
and  R  are  used  a  little  coarsely. 

1  Milton. 

2  As  PVF  will  continue  to  haunt  us  through  our  English  examples, 
take,  by  way  of  comparison,  this  Latin  verse,  of  which  it  forms  a  chief 
adornment,  and  do  not  hold  me  answerable  for  the  all  too  Roman  free- 
dom of  the  sense:  "  Hanc  volo,  quae  facilis,  quae  palliolata  vagatur." 

260 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

"  In  Xanadv  did  Kubla  Khan  (KANDL) 

A  stately  pleasure  dome  decree,  (KDLSR) 

Where  Alph  the  sacred  river  ran,  (KANDLSR) 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man,  (KANLSR) 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea."  i  (NDLS) 

Here  I  have  put  the  analysis  of  the  main  group  along- 
side the  lines;  and  the  more  it  is  looked  at,  the  more 
interesting  it  will  seem.  But  there  are  further  niceties. 
In  lines  two  and  four,  the  current  S  is  most  delicately 
varied  with  Z.  In  line  three,  the  current  flat  A  is  twice 
varied  with  the  open  A,  already  suggested  in  line  two, 
and  both  times  ("  where  "  and  "  sacred  ")  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  current  R.  In  the  same  line  F  and  V  (a 
harmony  in  themselves,  even  when  shorn  of  their 
comrade  P)  are  admirably  contrasted.  And  in  line 
four  there  is  a  marked  subsidiary  M,  which  again  was 
announced  in  line  two.  I  stop  from  weariness,  for 
more  might  yet  be  said. 

My  next  example  was  recently  quoted  from  Shake- 
speare as  an  example  of  the  poet's  colour  sense.  Now, 
1  do  not  think  literature  has  anything  to  do  with  colour, 
or  poets  anyway  the  better  of  such  a  sense ;  and  I  in- 
stantly attacked  this  passage,  since  "  purple  "  was  the 
word  that  had  so  pleased  the  writer  of  the  article,  to 
see  if  there  might  not  be  some  literary  reason  for  its 
use.  It  will  be  seen  thqt  I  succeeded  amply;  and  I  am 
bound  to  say  I  think  the  passage  exceptional  in  Shake- 
speare—exceptional, indeed,  in  literature;  but  it  was 
not  I  who  chose  it. 

"  The  BaRge  she  sat  iN,  like  a  BURNished  throNe 
BURNt  oN  the  water  :  the  POOP  was  BeateN  gold, 

1  Coleridge. 
261 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

PURPle  the  sails  and  so  PUR  *  Fumed  that  *  per 

The  wiNds  were  love-sick  with  them."i 

It  may  be  asked  why  I  have  put  the  F  of  "  perfumed  " 
in  capitals ;  and  I  reply,  because  this  change  from  P  to 
F  is  the  completion  of  that  from  B  to  P,  already  so 
adroitly  carried  out.  Indeed,  the  whole  passage  is  a 
monument  of  curious  ingenuity;  and  it  seems  scarce 
worth  while  to  indicate  the  subsidiary  S,  L,  and  W.  In 
the  same  article,  a  second  passage  from  Shakespeare  was 
quoted,  once  again  as  an  example  of  his  colour  sense: 

"  A  mole  cinque-spotted  like  the  crimson  drops 
V  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip."  2 

It  is  very  curious,  very  artificial,  and  not  worth  while 
to  analyse  at  length :  I  leave  it  to  the  reader.  But  before 
I  turn  my  back  on  Shakespeare,  I  should  like  to  quote  a 
passage,  for  my  own  pleasure,  and  for  a  very  model  of 
every  technical  art : 

"  But  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown,  W.  P.  V.^  F.  (st)  (ow) 
Distinction  with  a  loud  and  powerful  fan,    W.  P.  F.  (st)  (ow)  L 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away ;      W.  P.  F.  L 
And  what  hath  mass  and  matter  by  itself    W.  F.  L.  M.  A. 
Lies  rich  in  virtue  and  unmingled."*  V.  L.  M. 

From  these  delicate  and  choice  writers  I  turned  with 
some  curiosity  to  a  player  of  the  big  drum — Macaulay .  I 
had  in  hand  the  two-volume  edition,  and  I  opened  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  volume.    Here  was  what  I  read : 

"The  violence  of  revolutions  is  generally  proportioned  to  the  degree 
of  the  maladministration  which  has  produced  them.     It  is  therefore  not 

"^  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  2  Cymbeline. 

3  The  V  is  in  "  of."  *  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

262 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS  OF  STYLE   IN   LITERATURE 

strange  that  the  government  of  Scotland,  having  been  during  many  years 
greatly  more  corrupt  than  the  government  of  England,  should  have  fallen 
with  a  far  heavier  ruin.  The  movement  against  the  last  king  of  the  house 
of  Stuart  was  in  England  conservative,  in  Scotland  destructive.  The 
English  complained  not  of  the  law,  but  of  the  violation  of  the  law." 

This  was  plain-sailing  enough;  it  was  our  old  friend 
PVF,  floated  by  the  liquids  in  a  body ;  but  as  I  read  on, 
and  turned  the  page,  and  still  found  PVF  with  his 
attendant  liquids,  I  confess  my  mind  misgave  me 
utterly.  This  could  be  no  trick  of  Macaulay's ;  it  must 
be  the  nature  of  the  English  tongue.  In  a  kind  of  de- 
spair, I  turned  half-way  through  the  volume;  and  com- 
ing upon  his  lordship  dealing  with  General  Cannon, 
and  fresh  from  Claverhouse  and  Killiecrankie,  here, 
with  elucidative  spelling,  was  my  reward : 

'*  Meanwhile  the  disorders  of  Kannon's  Kamp  went  on  inKreasing.  He 
Kalled  a  Kouncil  of  war  to  Konsider  what  Kourse  it  would  be  advisable 
to  taKe.  But  as  soon  as  the  Kouncil  had  met,  a  preliminary  Kuestion 
was  raised.  The  army  was  almost  eKsKlusively  a  Highland  army.  The 
recent  viKtory  had  been  won  eKsKlusively  by  Highland  warriors.  Great 
chiefs  who  had  brought  siKs  or  Sez>en  hundred  /ighting  men  into  the 
/ield  did  not  think  it  /air  that  they  should  be  outtJoted  by  gentlemen 
from  Ireland,  and  yrom  the  Low  Kountries,  who  bore  indeed  King 
James's  Kommission,  and  were  Kalled  Kolonels  and  Kaptains,  but  who 
were  Kolonels  without  regiments  and  Kaptains  without  Kompanies." 

A  moment  of  FV  in  all  this  world  of  K's!  It  was 
not  the  English  language,  then,  that  was  an  instrument 
of  one  string,  but  Macaulay  that  was  an  incomparable 
dauber. 

It  was  probably  from  this  barbaric  love  of  repeating 
the  same  sound,  rather  than  from  any  design  of  clear- 
ness, that  he  acquired  his  irritating  habit  of  repeating 

263 


LITERARY    PAPERS 

words;  I  say  the  one  rather  than  the  other,  because 
such  a  trick  of  the  ear  is  deeper-seated  and  more  original 
in  man  than  any  logical  consideration.  Few  writers, 
indeed,  are  probably  conscious  of  the  length  to  which 
they  push  this  melody  of  letters.  One,  writing  very 
diligently,  and  only  concerned  about  the  meaning  of 
his  words  and  the  rhythm  of  his  phrases,  was  struck 
into  amazement  by  the  eager  triumph  with  which  he 
cancelled  one  expression  to  substitute  another.  Neither 
changed  the  sense;  both  being  monosyllables,  neither 
could  affect  the  scansion;  and  it  was  only  by  looking 
back  on  what  he  had  already  written  that  the  mystery 
was  solved:  the  second  word  contained  an  open  A, 
and  for  nearly  half  a  page  he  had  been  riding  that 
vowel  to  the  death. 

In  practice,  I  should  add,  the  ear  is  not  always  so 
exacting;  and  ordinary  writers,  in  ordinary  moments, 
content  themselves  with  avoiding  what  is  harsh,  and 
here  and  there,  upon  a  rare  occasion,  buttressing  a 
phrase,  or  linking  two  together,  with  a  patch  of  asso- 
nance or  a  momentary  jingle  of  alliteration.  To  under- 
stand how  constant  is  this  preoccupation  of  good 
writers,  even  where  its  results  are  least  obtrusive,  it  is 
only  necessary  to  turn  to  the  bad.  There,  indeed,  you 
will  find  cacophony  supreme,  the  rattle  of  incongruous 
consonants  only  relieved  by  the  jaw-breaking  hiatus, 
and  whole  phrases  not  to  be  articulated  by  the  powers 
of  man. 

Conclusion.— ^t  may  now  briefly  enumerate  the 
elements  of  style.  We  have,  peculiar  to  the  prose 
writer,  the  task  of  keeping  his  phrases  large,  rhythmi- 
cal, and  pleasing  to  the  ear,  without  ever  allowing  them 

264 


TECHNICAL  ELEMENTS   OF  STYLE   IN    LITERATURE 

to  fall  into  the  strictly  metrical :  peculiar  to  the  versifier, 
the  task  of  combining  and  contrasting  his  double,  treble, 
and  quadruple  pattern,  feet  and  groups,  logic  and  metre 
—harmonious  in  diversity:  common  to  both,  the  task 
of  artfully  combining  the  prime  elements  of  language 
into  phrases  that  shall  be  musical  in  the  mouth;  the 
task  of  weaving  their  argument  into  a  texture  of  com- 
mitted phrases  and  of  rounded  periods— but  this  par- 
ticularly binding  in  the  case  of  prose:  and,  again 
common  to  both,  the  task  of  choosing  apt,  explicit, 
and  communicative  words.  We  begin  to  see  now 
what  an  intricate  affair  is  any  perfect  passage;  how 
many  faculties,  whether  of  taste  or  pure  reason,  must 
be  held  upon  the  stretch  to  make  it;  and  why,  when  it 
is  made,  it  should  afford  us  so  complete  a  pleasure. 
From  the  arrangement  of  according  letters,  which  is 
altogether  arabesque  and  sensual,  up  to  the  architecture 
of  the  elegant  and  pregnant  sentence,  which  is  a  vigor- 
ous act  of  the  pure  intellect,  there  is  scarce  a  faculty  in 
man  but  has  been  exercised.  We  need  not  wonder, 
then,  if  perfect  sentences  are  rare,  and  perfect  pages 
rarer. 


265 


II 

A  NOTE  ON  REALISM* 

Style  is  the  invariable  mark  of  any  master;  and  for 
the  student  who  does  not  aspire  so  high  as  to  be  num- 
bered with  the  giants,  it  is  still  the  one  quality  in  which 
he  may  improve  himself  at  will.  Passion,  wisdom, 
creative  force,  the  power  of  mystery  or  colour,  are 
allotted  in  the  hour  of  birth,  and  can  be  neither  learned 
nor  simulated.  But  the  just  and  dexterous  use  of  what 
qualities  we  have,  the  proportion  of  one  part  to  another 
and  to  the  whole,  the  elision  of  the  useless,  the  accen- 
tuation of  the  important,  and  the  preservation  of  a 
uniform  character  from  end  to  end— these,  which  taken 
together  constitute  technical  perfection,  are  to  some 
degree  within  the  reach  of  industry  and  intellectual 
courage.  What  to  put  in  and  what  to  leave  out; 
whether  some  particular  fact  be  organically  necessary 
or  purely  ornamental;  whether,  if  it  be  purely  orna- 
mental, it  may  not  weaken  or  obscure  the  general  de- 
sign ;  and  finally,  whether,  if  we  decide  to  use  it,  we 
should  do  so  grossly  and  notably,  or  in  some  conven- 
tional disguise :  are  questions  of  plastic  style  continually 
rearising.     And  the  sphinx  that  patrols  the  highways 

1  First  published  in  the  Magazine  of  Art  in  1883. 
266 


A  NOTE  ON   REALISM 

of  executive  art  has  no  more  unanswerable  riddle  to 
propound. 

In  literature  (from  which  I  must  draw  my  instances) 
the  great  change  of  the  past  century  has  been  effected 
by  the  admission  of  detail.  It  was  inaugurated  by  the 
romantic  Scott;  and  at  length,  by  the  semi-romantic 
Balzac  and  his  more  or  less  wholly  unromantic  fol- 
lowers, bound  like  a  duty  on  the  novelist.  For  some 
time  it  signified  and  expressed  a  more  ample  contem- 
plation of  the  conditions  of  man's  life;  but  it  has 
recently  (at  least  in  France)  fallen  into  a  merely  tech- 
nical and  decorative  stage,  which  it  is,  perhaps,  still 
too  harsh  to  call  survival.  With  a  movement  of  alarm, 
the  wiser  or  more  timid  begin  to  fall  a  little  back 
from  these  extremities;  they  begin  to  aspire  after  a 
more  naked,  narrative  articulation ;  after  the  succinct, 
the  dignified,  and  the  poetic;  and  as  a  means  to  this, 
after  a  general  lightening  of  this  baggage  of  detail. 
After  Scott  we  beheld  the  starveling  story— once,  in 
the  hands  of  Voltaire,  as  abstract  as  a  parable— begin 
to  be  pampered  upon  facts.  The  introduction  of  these 
details  developed  a  particular  ability  of  hand ;  and  that 
ability,  childishly  indulged,  has  led  to  the  works  that 
now  amaze  us  on  a  railway  journey.  A  man  of  the 
unquestionable  force  of  M.  Zola  spends  himself  on 
technical  successes.  To  afford  a  popular  flavour  and 
attract  the  mob,  he  adds  a  steady  current  of  what  I 
may  be  allowed  to  call  the  rancid.  That  is  exciting 
to  the  moralist;  but  what  more  particularly  interests 
the  artist  is  this  tendency  of  the  extreme  of  detail, 
when  followed  as  a  principle,  to  degenerate  into  mere 
feux'de-joie  of  literary  tricking.     The  other  day  even 

267 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

M.  Daudet  was  to  be  heard  babbling  of  audible  colours 
and  visible  sounds. 

This  odd  suicide  of  one  branch  of  the  realists  may 
serve  to  remind  us  of  the  fact  which  underlies  a  very 
dusty  conflict  of  the  critics.  All  representative  art, 
which  can  be  said  to  live,  is  both  realistic  and  ideal; 
and  the  realism  about  which  we  quarrel  is  a  matter 
purely  of  externals.  It  is  no  especial  cultus  of  nature 
and  veracity,  but  a  mere  whim  of  veering  fashion,  that 
has  made  us  turn  our  back  upon  the  larger,  more  vari- 
ous, and  more  romantic  art  of  yore.  A  photographic 
exactitude  in  dialogue  is  now  the  exclusive  fashion ;  but 
even  in  the  ablest  hands  it  tells  us  no  more— I  thmk  it 
even  tells  us  less— than  Moliere,  wielding  his  artificial 
medium,  has  told  to  us  and  to  all  time  of  Alceste  or 
Orgon,  Dorine  or  Chrysale.  The  historical  novel  is 
forgotten.  Yet  truth  to  the  conditions  of  man's  nature 
and  the  conditions  of  man's  life,  the  truth  of  literary 
art,  is  free  of  the  ages.  It  may  be  told  us  in  a  carpet 
comedy,  in  a  novel  of  adventure,  or  a  fairy  tale.  The 
scene  may  be  pitched  in  London,  on  the  sea-coast  of 
Bohemia,  or  away  on  the  mountains  of  Beulah.  And 
by  an  odd  and  luminous  accident,  if  there  is  any  page 
of  literature  calculated  to  awake  the  envy  of  M.  Zola, 
it  must  be  that  Troilus  and  Cressida  which  Shake- 
speare, in  a  spasm  of  unmanly  anger  with  the  world, 
grafted  on  the  heroic  story  of  the  siege  of  Troy. 

This  question  of  realism,  let  it  then  be  clearly  under- 
stood, regards  not  in  the  least  degree  the  fundamental 
truth,  but  only  the  technical  method,  of  a  work  of  art. 
Be  as  ideal  or  as  abstract  as  you  please,  you  will  be 
none  the  less  veracious ;  but  if  you  be  weak,  you  run 

268 


A  NOTE  ON   REALISM 

the  risk  of  being  tedious  and  inexpressive;  and  if  you 
be  very  strong  and  honest,  you  may  chance  upon  a 
masterpiece. 

A  work  of  art  is  first  cloudily  conceived  in  the  mind ; 
during  the  period  of  gestation  it  stands  more  clearly 
forward  from  these  swaddling  mists,  puts  on  expres- 
sive lineaments,  and  becomes  at  length  that  most 
faultless,  but  also,  alas!  that  incommunicable  product 
of  the  human  mind,  a  perfected  design.  On  the  ap- 
proach to  execution  all  is  changed.  The  artist  must 
now  step  down,  don  his  working  clothes,  and  become 
the  artisan.  He  now  resolutely  commits  his  airy  concep- 
tion, his  delicate  Ariel,  to  the  touch  of  matter;  he  must 
decide,  almost  in  a  breath,  the  scale,  the  style,  the  spirit, 
and  the  particularity  of  execution  of  his  whole  design. 

The  engendering  idea  of  some  works  is  stylistic;  a 
technical  preoccupation  stands  them  instead  of  some 
robuster  principle  of  life.  And  with  these  the  execu- 
tion is  but  play;  for  the  stylistic  problem  is  resolved 
beforehand,  and  all  large  originality  of  treatment  wilfully 
foregone.  Such  are  the  verses,  intricately  designed, 
which  we  have  learnt  to  admire,  with  a  certain  smiling 
admiration,  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Lang  and  Mr.  Dobson ; 
such,  too,  are  those  canvases  where  dexterity  or  even 
breadth  of  plastic  style  takes  the  place  of  pictorial 
nobility  of  design.  So,  it  may  be  remarked,  it  was 
easier  to  begin  to  write  Esmond  than  Vanity  Fair, 
since,  in  the  first,  the  style  was  dictated  by  the  nature 
of  the  plan ;  and  Thackeray,  a  man  probably  of  some 
indolence  of  mind,  enjoyed  and  got  good  profit  of  this 
economy  of  effort.  But  the  case  is  exceptional.  Usu- 
ally in  all  works  of  art  that  have  been  conceived  from 

269 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

within  outwards,  and  generously  nourished  from  the 
author's  mind,  the  moment  in  which  he  begins  to  exe- 
cute is  one  of  extreme  perplexity  and  strain.  Artists 
of  indifferent  energy  and  an  imperfect  devotion  to  their 
own  ideal  make  this  ungrateful  effort  once  for  all;  and, 
having  formed  a  style,  adhere  to  it  through  life.  But 
those  of  a  higher  order  cannot  rest  content  with  a  pro- 
cess which,  as  they  continue  to  employ  it,  must  in- 
fallibly degenerate  towards  the  academic  and  the 
cut-and-dried.  Every  fresh  work  in  which  they  em- 
bark is  the  signal  for  a  fresh  engagement  of  the  whole 
forces  of  their  mind;  and  the  changing  views  which 
accompany  the  growth  of  their  experience  are  marked 
by  still  more  sweeping  alterations  in  the  manner  of 
their  art.  So  that  criticism  loves  to  dwell  upon  and 
distinguish  the  varying  periods  of  a  Raphael,  a  Shake- 
speare, or  a  Beethoven. 

It  is,  then,  first  of  all,  at  this  initial  and  decisive 
moment  when  execution  is  begun,  and  thenceforth 
only  in  a  less  degree,  that  the  ideal  and  the  real  do 
indeed,  like  good  and  evil  angels,  contend  for  the  direc- 
tion of  the  work.  Marble,  paint,  and  language,  the 
pen,  the  needle,  and  the  brush,  all  have  their  gross- 
nesses,  their  ineffable  impotences,  their  hours,  if  I  may 
so  express  myself,  of  insubordination.  It  is  the  work 
and  it  is  a  great  part  of  the  delight  of  any  artist  to  con- 
tend with  these  unruly  tools,  and  now  by  brute  energy, 
now  by  witty  expedient,  to  drive  and  coax  them  to  effect 
his  will.  Given  these  means,  so  laughably  inadequate, 
and  given  the  interest,  the  intensity,  and  the  multi- 
plicity of  the  actual  sensation  whose  effect  he  is  to 
render  with  their  aid,  the  artist  has  one  main  and  neces- 

270 


A   NOTE  ON    REALISM 

sary  resource  which  he  must,  in  every  case  and  upon 
any  theory,  employ.  He  must,  that  is,  suppress  much 
and  omit  more.  He  must  omit  what  is  tedious  or  ir- 
relevant, and  suppress  what  is  tedious  and  necessary. 
But  such  facts  as,  in  regard  to  the  main  design,  sub- 
serve a  variety  of  purposes,  he  will  perforce  and  eagerly 
retain.  And  it  is  the  mark  of  the  very  highest  order 
of  creative  art  to  be  woven  exclusively  of  such.  There, 
any  fact  that  is  registered  is  contrived  a  double  or  a 
treble  debt  to  pay,  and  is  at  once  an  ornament  in  its 
place,  and  a  pillar  in  the  main  design.  Nothing  would 
find  room  in  such  a  picture  that  did  not  serve,  at  once, 
to  complete  the  composition,  to  accentuate  the  scheme 
of  colour,  to  distinguish  the  planes  of  distance,  and  to 
strike  the  note  of  the  selected  sentiment ;  nothing  would 
be  allowed  in  such  a  story  that  did  not,  at  the  same  time, 
expedite  the  progress  of  the  fable,  build  up  the  char- 
acters, and  strike  home  the  moral  or  the  philosophical 
design.  But  this  is  unattainable.  As  a  rule,  so  far 
from  building  the  fabric  of  our  works  exclusively  with 
these,  we  are  thrown  into  a  rapture  if  we  think  we  can 
muster  a  dozen  or  a  score  of  them,  to  be  the  plums  of 
our  confection.  And  hence,  in  order  that  the  canvas 
may  be  filled  or  the  story  proceed  from  point  to  point, 
other  details  must  be  admitted.  They  must  be  admitted, 
alas!  upon  a  doubtful  title;  many  without  marriage 
robes.  Thus  any  work  of  art,  as  it  proceeds  towards 
completion,  too  often— I  had  almost  written  always— 
loses  in  force  and  poignancy  of  main  design.  Our 
little  air  is  swamped  and  dwarfed  among  hardly  rele- 
vant orchestration;  our  little  passionate  story  drowns 
in  a  deep  sea  of  descriptive  eloquence  or  slipshod  talk. 

271 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

But  again,  we  are  rather  more  tempted  to  admit  those 
particulars  which  we  know  we  can  describe;  and  hence 
those  most  of  all  which,  having  been  described  very 
often,  have  grown  to  be  conventionally  treated  in  the 
practice  of  our  art.  These  we  choose,  as  the  mason 
chooses  the  acanthus  to  adorn  his  capital,  because  they 
come  naturally  to  the  accustomed  hand.  The  old  stock 
incidents  and  accessories,  tricks  of  workmanship  and 
schemes  of  composition  (all  being  admirably  good,  or 
they  would  long  have  been  forgotten)  haunt  and  tempt 
our  fancy,  offer  us  ready-made  but  not  perfectly  appro- 
priate solutions  for  any  problem  that  arises,  and  wean 
us  from  the  study  of  nature  and  the  uncompromising 
practice  of  art.  To  struggle,  to  face  nature,  to  find 
fresh  solutions,  and  give  expression  to  facts  which  have 
not  yet  been  adequately  or  not  yet  elegantly  expressed, 
is  to  run  a  little  upon  the  danger  of  extreme  self-love. 
Difficulty  sets  a  high  price  upon  achievement;  and  the 
artist  may  easily  fall  into  the  error  of  the  French  natu- 
ralists, and  consider  any  fact  as  welcome  to  admission 
if  it  be  the  ground  of  brilliant  handiwork;  or,  again, 
into  the  error  of  the  modern  landscape-painter,  who  is 
apt  to  think  that  difficulty  overcome  and  science  well 
displayed  can  take  the  place  of  what  is,  after  all,  the 
one  excuse  and  breath  of  art— charm.  A  little  further, 
and  he  will  regard  charm  in  the  light  of  an  unworthy 
sacrifice  to  prettiness,  and  the  omission  of  a  tedious  pas- 
sage as  an  infidelity  to  art. 

We  have  now  the  matter  of  this  difference  before  us. 
The  idealist,  his  eye  singly  fixed  upon  the  greater  out- 
lines, loves  rather  to  fill  up  the  interval  with  detail  of 
the  conventional  order,  briefly  touched,  soberly  sup- 

272 


A  NOTE  ON   REALISM 

pressed  in  tone,  courting  neglect.  But  the  realist,  with 
a  fine  intemperance,  will  not  suffer  the  presence  of  any- 
thing so  dead  as  a  convention;  he  shall  have  all  fiery, 
all  hot-pressed  from  nature,  all  charactered  and  notable, 
seizing  the  eye.  The  style  that  befits  either  of  these  ex- 
tremes, once  chosen,  brings  with  it  its  necessary  dis- 
abilities and  dangers.  The  immediate  danger  of  the 
realist  is  to  sacrifice  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the 
whole  to  local  dexterity,  or,  in  the  insane  pursuit  of 
completion,  to  immolate  his  readers  under  facts;  but  he 
comes  in  the  last  resort,  and  as  his  energy  declines,  to 
discard  all  design,  abjure  all  choice,  and,  with  scientific 
thoroughness,  steadily  to  communicate  matter  which  is 
not  worth  learning.  The  danger  of  the  idealist  is,  of 
course,  to  become  merely  null  and  lose  all  grip  of  fact, 
particularity,  or  passion. 

We  talk  of  bad  and  good.  Everything,  indeed,  is 
good  which  is  conceived  with  honesty  and  executed 
with  communicative  ardour.  But  though  on  neither 
side  is  dogmatism  fitting,  and  though  in  every  case  the 
artist  must  decide  for  himself,  and  decide  afresh  and 
yet  afresh  for  each  succeeding  work  and  new  creation ; 
yet  one  thing  may  be  generally  said,  that  we  of  the  last 
quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  breathing  as  we  do 
the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  our  age,  are  more  apt  to 
err  upon  the  side  of  realism  than  to  sin  in  quest  of  the 
ideal.  Upon  that  theory  it  may  be  well  to  watch  and 
correct  our  own  decisions,  always  holding  back  the 
hand  from  the  least  appearance  of  irrelevant  dexterity, 
and  resolutely  fixed  to  begin  no  work  that  is  not  philo- 
sophical, passionate,  dignified,  happily  mirthful,  or,  at 
the  last  and  least,  romantic  in  design. 

273 


Ill 

THE  MORALITY  OF  THE  PROFESSION  OF  LETTERS  ^ 

The  profession  of  letters  has  been  lately  debated  in 
the  public  prints;  and  it  has  been  debated,  to  put  the 
matter  mildly,  from  a  point  of  view  that  was  calculated 
to  surprise  high-minded  men,  and  bring  a  general  con- 
tempt on  books  and  reading.  Some  time  ago,  in  par- 
ticular, a  lively,  pleasant,  popular  writer^  devoted  an 
essay,  lively  and  pleasant  like  himself,  to  a  very  en- 
couraging view  of  the  profession.  We  may  be  glad 
that  his  experience  is  so  cheering,  and  we  may  hope 
that  all  others,  who  deserve  it,  shall  be  as  handsomely 
rewarded;  but  I  do  not  think  we  need  be  at  all  glad  to 
have  this  question,  so  important  to  the  public  and  our- 
selves, debated  solely  on  the  ground  of  money.  The 
salary  in  any  business  under  heaven  is  not  the  only, 
nor  indeed  the  first,  question.  That  you  should  con- 
tinue to  exist  is  a  matter  for  your  own  consideration; 
but  that  your  business  should  be  first  honest,  and  second 
useful,  are  points  in  which  honour  and  morality  are 
concerned.  If  the  writer  to  whom  I  refer  succeeds  in 
persuading  a  number  of  young  persons  to  adopt  this 

^  First  published  in  the  Fortnightly  Review,  April,  1881. 
2  Mr.  James  Payn. 

274 


THE  MORALITY   OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

way  of  life  with  an  eye  set  singly  on  the  livelihood, 
we  must  expect  them  in  their  works  to  follow  profit 
only,  and  we  must  expect  in  consequence,  if  he  will 
pardon  me  the  epithets,  a  slovenly,  base,  untrue,  and 
empty  literature.  Of  that  writer  himself  I  am  not 
speaking:  he  is  diligent,  clean,  and  pleasing;  we  all 
owe  him  periods  of  entertainment,  and  he  has  achieved 
an  amiable  popularity  which  he  has  adequately  deserved. 
But  the  truth  is,  he  does  not,  or  did  not  when  he  first 
embraced  it,  regard  his  profession  from  this  purely 
mercenary  side.  He  went  into  it,  1  shall  venture  to 
say,  if  not  with  any  noble  design,  at  least  in  the  ardour 
of  a  first  love;  and  he  enjoyed  its  practice  long  before 
he  paused  to  calculate  the  wage.  The  other  day  an 
author  was  complimented  on  a  piece  of  work,  good  in 
itself  and  exceptionally  good  for  him,  and  replied,  in 
terms  unworthy  of  a  commercial  traveller,  that  as  the 
book  was  not  briskly  selling  he  did  not  give  a  copper 
farthing  for  its  merit.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
the  person  to  whom  this  answer  was  addressed  received 
it  as  a  profession  of  faith ;  he  knew,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  it  was  only  a  whiff  of  irritation;  just  as  we  know, 
when  a  respectable  writer  talks  of  literature  as  a  way 
of  life,  like  shoemaking,  but  not  so  useful,  that  he  is 
only  debating  one  aspect  of  a  question,  and  is  still 
clearly  conscious  of  a  dozen  others  more  important  in 
themselves  and  more  central  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
But  while  those  who  treat  literature  in  this  penny-wise 
and  virtue-foolish  spirit  are  themselves  truly  in  posses- 
sion of  a  better  light,  it  does  not  follow  that  the  treat- 
ment is  decent  or  improving,  whether  for  themselves 
or  others.     To  treat  all  subjects  in  the  highest,  the 

275 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

most  honourable,  and  the  pluckiest  spirit,  consistent 
with  the  fact,  is  the  first  duty  of  a  writer.  If  he  be 
well  paid,  as  I  am  glad  to  hear  he  is,  this  duty  becomes 
the  more  urgent,  the  neglect  of  it  the  more  disgraceful. 
And  perhaps  there  is  no  subject  on  which  a  man  should 
speak  so  gravely  as  that  industry,  whatever  it  may  be, 
which  is  the  occupation  or  delight  of  his  life;  which  is 
his  tool  to  earn  or  serve  with ;  and  which,  if  it  be  un- 
worthy, stamps  himself  as  a  mere  incubus  of  dumb 
and  greedy  bowels  on  the  shoulders  of  labouring  hu- 
manity. On  that  subject  alone  even  to  force  the  note 
might  lean  to  virtue's  side.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  a 
numerous  and  enterprising  generation  of  writers  will 
follow  and  surpass  the  present  one;  but  it  would  be 
better  if  the  stream  were  stayed,  and  the  roll  of  our 
old,  honest  English  books  were  closed,  than  that  esuri- 
ent book-makers  should  continue  and  debase  a  brave 
tradition,  and  lower,  in  their  own  eyes,  a  famous  race. 
Better  that  our  serene  temples  were  deserted  than  filled 
with  trafficking  and  juggling  priests. 

There  are  two  just  reasons  for  the  choice  of  any  way 
of  life:  the  first  is  inbred  taste  in  the  chooser;  the 
second  some  high  utility  in  the  industry  selected.  Lit- 
erature, like  any  other  art,  is  singularly  interesting  to  the 
artist;  and,  in  a  degree  peculiar  to  itself  among  the  arts, 
it  is  useful  to  mankind.  These  are  the  sufficient  justi- 
fications for  any  young  man  or  woman  who  adopts  it 
as  the  business  of  his  life.  I  shall  not  say  much  about 
the  wages.  A  writer  can  live  by  his  writing.  If  not 
so  luxuriously  as  by  other  trades,  then  less  luxuriously. 
The  nature  of  the  work  he  does  all  day  will  more  affect 
his  happiness  than  the  quality  of  his  dinner  at  night. 

276 


THE   MORALITY  OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

Whatever  be  your  calling,  and  however  much  it  brings 
you  in  the  year,  you  could  still,  you  know,  get  more 
by  cheating.  We  all  suffer  ourselves  to  be  too  much 
concerned  about  a  little  poverty;  but  such  considera- 
tions should  not  move  us  in  the  choice  of  that  which  is 
to  be  the  business  and  justification  of  so  great  a  portion 
of  our  lives ;  and  like  the  missionary,  the  patriot,  or  the 
philosopher,  we  should  all  choose  that  poor  and  brave 
career  in  which  we  can  do  the  most  and  best  for  man- 
kind. Now  nature,  faithfully  followed,  proves  herself 
a  careful  mother.  A  lad,  for  some  liking  to  the  jingle 
of  words,  betakes  himself  to  letters  for  his  life;  by- 
and-by,  when  he  learns  more  gravity,  he  finds  that  he 
has  chosen  better  than  he  knew;  that  if  he  earns  little, 
he  is  earning  it  amply;  that  if  he  receives  a  small  wage, 
he  is  in  a  position  to  do  considerable  services;  that  it 
is  in  his  power,  in  some  small  measure,  to  protect  the 
oppressed  and  to  defend  the  truth.  So  kindly  is  the 
world  arranged,  such  great  profit  may  arise  from  a 
small  degree  of  human  reliance  on  oneself,  and  such, 
in  particular,  is  the  happy  star  of  this  trade  of  writing, 
that  it  should  combine  pleasure  and  profit  to  both  par- 
ties, and  be  at  once  agreeable,  like  fiddling,  and  useful, 
like  good  preaching. 

This  is  to  speak  of  literature  at  its  highest ;  and  with 
the  four  great  elders  who  are  still  spared  to  our  respect 
and  admiration,  with  Carlyle,  Ruskin,  Browning,  and 
Tennyson  before  us,  it  would  be  cowardly  to  consider 
it  at  first  in  any  lesser  aspect.  But  while  we  cannot 
follow  these  athletes,  while  we  may  none  of  us,  per- 
haps, be  very  vigorous,  very  original,  or  very  wise,  I 
still  contend  that,  in  the  humblest  sort  of  literary  work, 

277 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

we  have  it  in  our  power  either  to  do  great  harm  or 
great  good.  We  may  seek  merely  to  please;  we  may 
seek,  having  no  higher  gift,  merely  to  gratify  the  idle 
nine  days'  curiosity  of  our  contemporaries ;  or  we  may 
essay,  however  feebly,  to  instruct.  In  each  of  these 
we  shall  have  to  deal  with  that  remarkable  art  of  words 
which,  because  it  is  the  dialect  of  life,  comes  home  so 
easily  and  powerfully  to  the  minds  of  men;  and  since 
that  is  so,  we  contribute,  in  each  of  these  branches,  to 
build  up  the  sum  of  sentiments  and  appreciations  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  Public  Opinion  or  Public  Feeling. 
The  total  of  a  nation's  reading,  in  these  days  of  daily 
papers,  greatly  modifies  the  total  of  the  nation's  speech ; 
and  the  speech  and  reading,  taken  together,  form  the 
efficient  educational  medium  of  youth.  A  good  man  or 
woman  may  keep  a  youth  some  little  while  in  clearer 
air;  but  the  contemporary  atmosphere  is  all-powerful 
in  the  end  on  the  average  of  mediocre  characters.  The 
copious  Corinthian  baseness  of  the  American  reporter 
or  the  Parisian  chroniquer,  both  so  lightly  readable, 
must  exercise  an  incalculable  influence  for  ill ;  they  touch 
upon  all  subjects,  and  on  all  with  the  same  ungenerous 
hand;  they  begin  the  consideration  of  all,  in  young  and 
unprepared  minds,  in  an  unworthy  spirit;  on  all,  they 
supply  some  pungency  for  dull  people  to  quote.  The 
mere  body  of  this  ugly  matter  overwhelms  the  rare 
utterances  of  good  men;  the  sneering,  the  selfish,  and 
the  cowardly  are  scattered  in  broad  sheets  on  every 
table,  while  the  antidote,  in  small  volumes,  lies  unread 
upon  the  shelf.  I  have  spoken  of  the  American  and 
the  French,  not  because  they  are  so  much  baser,  but  so 
much  more  readable,  than  the  English ;  their  evil  is  done 

378 


THE  MORALITY  OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

more  effectively,  in  America  for  the  masses,  in  French 
for  the  few  that  care  to  read ;  but  with  us  as  with  them, 
the  duties  of  literature  are  daily  neglected,  truth  daily 
perverted  and  suppressed,  and  grave  subjects  daily 
degraded  in  the  treatment.  The  journalist  is  not  reck- 
oned an  important  officer;  yet  judge  of  the  good  he 
might  do,  the  harm  he  does;  judge  of  it  by  one  instance 
only:  that  when  we  find  two  journals  on  the  reverse 
sides  of  politics  each,  on  the  same  day.  openly  garbling 
a  piece  of  news  for  the  interest  of  its  own  party,  we 
smile  at  the  discovery  (no  discovery  now!)  as  over  a 
good  joke  and  pardonable  stratagem.  Lying  so  open 
is  scarce  lying,  it  is  true;  but  one  of  the  things  that  we 
profess  to  teach  our  young  is  a  respect  for  truth ;  and  I 
cannot  think  this  piece  of  education  will  be  crowned 
with  any  great  success,  so  long  as  some  of  us  practise 
and  the  rest  openly  approve  of  public  falsehood. 

There  are  two  duties  incumbent  upon  any  man  who 
enters  on  the  business  of  writing :  truth  to  the  fact  and 
a  good  spirit  in  the  treatment.  In  every  department  of 
literature,  though  so  low  as  hardly  to  deserve  the  name, 
truth  to  the  fact  is  of  importance  to  the  education  and 
comfort  of  mankind,  and  so  hard  to  preserve,  that  the 
faithful  trying  to  do  so  will  lend  some  dignity  to  the 
man  who  tries  it.  Our  judgments  are  based  upon  two 
things :  first,  upon  the  original  preferences  of  our  soul ; 
but,  second,  upon  the  mass  of  testimony  to  the  nature 
of  God,  man,  and  the  universe  which  reaches  us,  in 
divers  manners,  from  without.  For  the  most  part 
these  divers  manners  are  reducible  to  one,  all  that  we 
learn  of  past  times  and  much  that  we  learn  of  our  own 
reaching  us  through  the  medium  of  books  or  papers, 

279 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

and  even  he  who  cannot  read  learning  from  the  same 
source  at  second-hand  and  by  the  report  of  him  who 
can.  Thus  the  sum  of  the  contemporary  knowledge 
or  ignorance  of  good  and  evil  is,  in  large  measure,  the 
handiwork  of  those  who  write.  Those  who  write 
have  to  see  that  each  man's  knowledge  is,  as  near  as 
they  can  make  it,  answerable  to  the  facts  of  life;  that 
he  shall  not  suppose  himself  an  angel  or  a  monster; 
nor  take  this  world  for  a  hell ;  nor  be  suffered  to  imagine 
that  all  rights  are  concentred  in  his  own  caste  or  coun- 
try, or  all  veracities  in  his  own  parochial  creed.  Each 
man  should  learn  what  is  within  him,  that  he  may  strive 
to  mend ;  he  must  be  taught  what  is  without  him,  that 
he  may  be  kind  to  others.  It  can  never  be  wrong  to 
tell  him  the  truth ;  for,  in  his  disputable  state,  weaving 
as  he  goes  his  theory  of  life,  steering  himself,  cheering 
or  reproving  others,  all  facts  are  of  the  first  importance 
to  his  conduct;  and  even  if  a  fact  shall  discourage  or 
corrupt  him,  it  is  still  best  that  he  should  know  it;  for 
it  is  in  this  world  as  it  is,  and  not  in  a  world  made  easy 
by  educational  suppressions,  that  he  must  win  his  way 
to  shame  or  glory.  In  one  word,  it  must  always  be 
foul  to  tell  what  is  false ;  and  it  can  never  be  safe  to 
suppress  what  is  true.  The  very  fact  that  you  omit 
may  be  the  fact  which  somebody  was  wanting,  for 
one  man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison,  and  I  have 
known  a  person  who  was  cheered  by  the  perusal  of 
Candide.  Every  fact  is  a  part  of  that  great  puzzle  we 
must  set  together;  and  none  that  comes  directly  in  a 
writer's  path  but  has  some  nice  relations,  unperceivable 
by  him,  to  the  totality  and  bearing  of  the  subject  under 
hand.     Yet  there  are  certain  classes  of  fact  eternally 

280 


THE  MORALITY  OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

more  necessary  than  others,  and  it  is  with  these  that 
literature  must  first  bestir  itself.  They  are  not  hard  to 
distinguish,  nature  once  more  easily  leading  us ;  for  the 
necessary,  because  the  eificacious,  facts  are  those  which 
are  most  interesting  to  the  natural  mind  of  man.  Those 
which  are  coloured,  picturesque,  human,  and  rooted 
in  morality,  and  those,  on  the  other  hand,  which  are 
clear,  indisputable,  and  a  part  of  science,  are  alone  vital 
in  importance,  seizing  by  their  interest,  or  useful  to 
communicate.  So  far  as  the  writer  merely  narrates, 
he  should  principally  tell  of  these.  He  should  tell  of 
the  kind  and  wholesome  and  beautiful  elements  of  our 
life;  he  should  tell  unsparingly  of  the  evil  and  sorrow 
of  the  present,  to  move  us  with  instances;  he  should 
tell  of  wise  and  good  people  in  the  past,  to  excite  us 
by  example;  and  of  these  he  should  tell  soberly  and 
truthfully,  not  glossing  faults,  that  we  may  neither 
grow  discouraged  with  ourselves  nor  exacting  to  our 
neighbours.  So  the  body  of  contemporary  literature, 
ephemeral  and  feeble  in  itself,  touches  in  the  minds  of 
men  the  springs  of  thought  and  kindness,  and  supports 
them  (for  those  who  will  go  at  all  are  easily  supported) 
on  their  way  to  what  is  true  and  right.  And  if,  in  any 
degree,  it  does  so  now,  how  much  more  might  it  do  so 
if  the  writers  chose !  There  is  not  a  life  in  all  the  records 
of  the  past  but,  properly  studied,  might  lend  a  hint  and 
a  help  to  some  contemporary.  There  is  not  a  juncture 
in  to-day's  affairs  but  some  useful  word  may  yet  be  said 
of  it.  Even  the  reporter  has  an  office,  and,  with  clear 
eyes  and  honest  language,  may  unveil  injustices  and 
point  the  way  to  progress.  And  for  a  last  word:  in 
all  narration  there  is  only  one  way  to  be  clever,  and 

281 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

that  is  to  be  exact.  To  be  vivid  is  a  secondary  quality 
which  must  presuppose  the  first;  for  vividly  to  convey 
a  wrong  impression  is  only  to  make  failure  conspicuous. 
But  a  fact  may  be  viewed  on  many  sides ;  it  may  be 
chronicled  with  rage,  tears,  laughter,  indifference,  or 
admiration,  and  by  each  of  these  the  story  will  be  trans- 
formed to  something  else.  The  newspapers  that  told 
of  the  return  of  our  representatives  from  Berlin,  even  if 
they  had  not  differed  as  to  the  facts,  would  have  suffi- 
ciently differed  by  their  spirits ;  so  that  the  one  descrip- 
tion would  have  been  a  second  ovation,  and  the  other 
a  prolonged  insult.  The  subject  makes  but  a  trifling 
part  of  any  piece  of  literature,  and  the  view  of  the  writer 
is  itself  a  fact  more  important  because  less  disputable 
than  the  others.  Now  this  spirit  in  which  a  subject  is 
regarded,  important  in  all  kinds  of  literary  work,  be- 
comes all-important  in  works  of  fiction,  meditation,  or 
rhapsody ;  for  there  it  not  only  colours  but  itself  chooses 
the  facts ;  not  only  modifies  but  shapes  the  work.  And 
hence,  over  the  far  larger  proportion  of  the  field  of 
literature,  the  health  or  disease  of  the  writer's  mind  or 
momentary  humour  forms  not  only  the  leading  feature 
of  his  work,  but  is,  at  bottom,  the  only  thing  he  can 
communicate  to  others.  In  all  works  of  art,  widely 
speaking,  it  is  first  of  all  the  author's  attitude  that  is 
narrated,  though  in  the  attitude  there  be  implied  a 
whole  experience  and  a  theory  of  life.  An  author  who 
has  begged  the  question  and  reposes  in  some  narrow 
faith  cannot,  if  he  would,  express  the  whole  or  even 
many  of  the  sides  of  this  various  existence;  for,  his 
own  life  being  maim,  some  of  them  are  not  admitted 
in  his  theory,  and  were  only  dimly  and  unwillingly 

282 


THE  MORALITY   OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

recognised  in  his  experience.  Hence  the  smallness, 
the  triteness,  and  the  inhumanity  in  works  of  merely 
sectarian  religion;  and  hence  we  fmd  equal  although 
unsimilar  limitation  in  works  inspired  by  the  spirit  of 
the  flesh  or  the  despicable  taste  for  high  society.  So 
that  the  first  duty  of  any  man  who  is  to  write  is  intel- 
lectual. Designedly  or  not,  he  has  so  far  set  himself 
up  for  a  leader  of  the  minds  of  men ;  and  he  must  see 
that  his  own  mind  is  kept  supple,  charitable,  and  bright. 
Everything  but  prejudice  should  find  a  voice  through 
him;  he  should  see  the  good  in  all  things;  where  he 
has  even  a  fear  that  he  does  not  wholly  understand, 
there  he  should  be  wholly  silent;  and  he  should  recog- 
nise from  the  first  that  he  has  only  one  tool  in  his 
workshop,  and  that  tool  is  sympathy. ^ 

The  second  duty,  far  harder  to  define,  is  moral. 
There  are  a  thousand  different  humours  in  the  mind, 
and  about  each  of  them,  when  it  is  uppermost,  some 
literature  tends  to  be  deposited.  Is  this  to  be  allowed  ? 
Not  certainly  in  every  case,  and  yet  perhaps  in  more 
than  rigourists  would  fancy.  It  were  to  be  desired  that 
all  literary  work,  and  chiefly  works  of  art,  issued  from 
sound,  human,  healthy,  and  potent  impulses,  whether 
grave  or  laughing,  humorous,  romantic,  or  religious. 
Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  some  valuable  books  are 
partially  insane;  some,  mostly  religious,  partially  inhu- 

1  A  footnote,  at  least,  is  due  to  the  admirable  example  set  before  all 
young  writers  in  the  width  of  literary  sympathy  displayed  by  Mr.  Swin- 
burne. He  runs  forth  to  welcome  merit,  whether  in  Dickens  or  Trollope, 
whether  in  Villon,  Milton,  or  Pope,  This  is,  in  criticism,  the  attitude  we 
should  all  seek  to  preserve,  not  only  in  that,  but  in  every  branch  of 
literary  work. 

283 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

man;  and  very  many  tainted  with  morbidity  and  im- 
potence. We  do  not  loathe  a  masterpiece  although  we 
gird  against  its  blemishes.  We  are  not,  above  all,  to 
look  for  faults,  but  merits.  There  is  no  book  perfect, 
even  in  design;  but  there  are  many  that  will  delight, 
improve,  or  encourage  the  reader.  On  the  one  hand, 
the  Hebrew  psalms  are  the  only  religious  poetry  on 
earth ;  yet  they  contain  sallies  that  savour  rankly  of  the 
man  of  blood.  On  the  other  hand,  Alfred  de  Musset 
had  a  poisoned  and  a  contorted  nature;  I  am  only  quot- 
ing that  generous  and  frivolous  giant,  old  Dumas,  when 
I  accuse  him  of  a  bad  heart;  yet,  when  the  impulse 
under  which  he  wrote  was  purely  creative,  he  could  give 
us  works  like  Carmosine  or  Fantasia,  in  which  the  last 
note  of  the  romantic  comedy  seems  to  have  been  found 
again  to  touch  and  please  us.  When  Flaubert  wrote 
Madame  Bovary,  I  believe  he  thought  chiefly  of  a  some- 
what morbid  realism;  and  behold!  the  book  turned  in 
his  hands  into  a  masterpiece  of  appalling  morality.  But 
the  truth  is,  when  books  are  conceived  under  a  great 
stress,  with  a  soul  of  ninefold  power,  nine  times  heated 
and  electrified  by  effort,  the  conditions  of  our  being  are 
seized  with  such  an  ample  grasp,  that,  even  should  the 
main  design  be  trivial  or  base,  some  truth  and  beauty 
cannot  fail  to  be  expressed.  Out  of  the  strong  comes 
forth  sweetness;  but  an  ill  thing  poorly  done  is  an  ill 
thing  top  and  bottom.  And  so  this  can  be  no  encour- 
agement to  knock-kneed,  feeble-wristed  scribes,  who 
must  take  their  business  conscientiously  or  be  ashamed 
to  practise  it. 

Man  is  imperfect;  yet,  in  his  literature,  he  must  ex- 
press himself  and  his  own  views  and  preferences;  for 

284  ^ 


THE   MORALITY   OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

to  do  anything  else  is  to  do  a  far  more  perilous  thing 
than  to  risk  being  immoral:  it  is  to  be  sure  of  being 
untrue.  To  ape  a  sentiment,  even  a  good  one,  is  to 
travesty  a  sentiment;  that  will  not  be  helpful.  To 
conceal  a  sentiment,  if  you  are  sure  you  hold  it,  is  to 
take  a  liberty  with  truth.  There  is  probably  no  point 
of  view  possible  to  a  sane  man  but  contains  some  truth 
and,  in  the  true  connection,  might  be  profitable  to  the 
race.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  truth,  if  any  one  could  tell 
it  me,  but  I  am  afraid  of  parts  of  it  impertinently  uttered. 
There  is  a  time  to  dance  and  a  time  to  mourn;  to  be 
harsh  as  well  as  to  be  sentimental ;  to  be  ascetic  as  well 
as  to  glorify  the  appetites ;  and  if  a  man  were  to  com- 
bine all  these  extremes  into  his  work,  each  in  its  place 
and  proportion,  that  work  would  be  the  world's 
masterpiece  of  morality  as  well  as  of  art.  Partiality  is 
immorality;  for  any  book  is  wrong  that  gives  a  mis- 
leading picture  of  the  world  and  life.  The  trouble  is 
that  the  weakling  must  be  partial;  the  work  of  one 
proving  dank  and  depressing;  of  another,  cheap  and 
vulgar;  of  a  third,  epileptically  sensual;  of  a  fourth, 
sourly  ascetic.  In  literature  as  in  conduct,  you  can 
never  hope  to  do  exactly  right.  All  you  can  do  is  to 
make  as  sure  as  possible;  and  for  that  there  is  but  one 
rule.  Nothing  should  be  done  in  a  hurry  that  can  be 
done  slowly.  It  is  no  use  to  write  a  book  and  put  it 
by  for  nine  or  even  ninety  years ;  for  in  the  writing  you 
will  have  partly  convinced  yourself;  the  delay  must 
precede  any  beginning;  and  if  you  meditate  a  work  of 
art,  you  should  first  long  roll  the  subject  under  the 
tongue  to  make  sure  you  like  the  flavour,  before  you 
brew  a  volume  that  shall  taste  of  it  from  end  to  end; 

285 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

or  if  you  propose  to  enter  on  the  field  of  controversy, 
you  should  first  have  thought  upon  the  question  under 
all  conditions,  in  health  as  well  as  in  sickness,  in  sor- 
row as  well  as  in  joy.  It  is  this  nearness  of  examina- 
tion necessary  for  any  true  and  kind  writing,  that  makes 
the  practice  of  the  art  a  prolonged  and  noble  education 
for  the  writer. 

There  is  plenty  to  do,  plenty  to  say,  or  to  say  over 
again,  in  the  meantime.  Any  literary  work  which  con- 
veys faithful  facts  or  pleasing  impressions  is  a  service 
to  the  public.  It  is  even  a  service  to  be  thankfully 
proud  of  having  rendered.  The  slightest  novels  are  a 
blessing  to  those  in  distress,  not  chloroform  itself  a 
greater.  Our  fine  old  sea-captain's  life  was  justified 
when  Carlyle  soothed  his  mind  with  The  King's  Own 
or  Newton  Forster.  To  please  is  to  serve;  and  so  far 
from  its  being  difficult  to  instruct  while  you  amuse,  it 
is  difficult  to  do  the  one  thoroughly  without  the  othen 
Some  part  of  the  writer  or  his  life  will  crop  out  in  even 
a  vapid  book;  and  to  read  a  novel  that  was  conceived 
with  any  force  is  to  multiply  experience  and  to  exercise 
the  sympathies.  Every  article,  ev.ery  piece  of  verse, 
every  essay,  every  entre-Jilet,  is  destined  to  pass,  how- 
ever swiftly,  through  the  minds  of  some  portion  of 
the  public,  and  to  colour,  however  transiently,  their 
thoughts.  When  any  subject  falls  to  be  discussed, 
some  scribbler  on  a  paper  has  the  invaluable  opportu- 
nity of  beginning  its  discussion  in  a  dignified  and  human 
spirit;  and  if  there  were  enough  who  did  so  in  our 
public  press,  neither  the  public  nor  the  Parliament 
would  find  it  in  their  minds  to  drop  to  meaner  thoughts. 
The  writer  has  the  chance  to  stumble,  by  the  way,  on 

286 


THE  MORALITY  OF  THE   PROFESSION   OF   LETTERS 

something  pleasing,  something  interesting,  something 
encouraging^  were  it  only  to  a  single  reader.  He  will 
be  unfortunate,  indeed,  if  he  suit  no  one.  He  has  the 
chance,  besides,  to  stumble  on  something  that  a  dull 
person  shall  be  able  to  comprehend;  and  for  a  dull 
person  to  have  read  anything  and,  for  that  once,  com- 
prehended it,  makes  a  marking  epoch  in  his  education. 
Here,  then,  is  work  worth  doing  and  worth  trying  to 
do  well.  And  so,  if  1  were  minded  to  welcome  any 
great  accession  to  our  trade,  it  should  not  be  from  any 
reason  of  a  higher  wage,  but  because  it  was  a  trade 
which  was  useful  in  a  very  great  and  in  a  very  high 
degree;  which  every  honest  tradesman  could  make 
more  serviceable  to  mankind  in  his  single  strength; 
which  was  difficult  to  do  well  and  possible  to  do  better 
every  year;  which  called  for  scrupulous  thought  on  the 
part  of  all  who  practised  it,  and  hence  became  a  per- 
petual education  to  their  nobler  natures;  and  which, 
pay  it  as  you  please,  in  the  large  majority  of  the  best 
cases  will  still  be  underpaid.  For  surely,  at  this  time 
of  day  in  the  nineteenth  century,  there  is  nothing  that 
an  honest  man  should  fear  more  timorously  than  getting 
and  spending  more  than  he  deserves. 


287 


IV 

THE  DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW* 

History  is  much  decried ;  it  is  a  tissue  of  errors,  we 
are  told,  no  doubt  correctly;  and  rival  historians  expose 
each  other's  blunders  with  gratification.  Yet  the  worst 
historian  has  a  clearer  view  of  the  period  he  studies  than 
the  best  of  us  can  hope  to  form  of  that  in  which  we 
live.  The  obscurest  epoch  is  to-day;  and  that  for  a 
thousand  reasons  of  inchoate  tendency,  conflicting 
report,  and  sheer  mass  and  multiplicity  of  experience ; 
but  chiefly,  perhaps,  by  reason  of  an  insidious  shifting 
of  landmarks.  Parties  and  ideas  continually  move,  but 
not  by  measurable  marches  on  a  stable  course;  the 
political  soil  itself  steals  forth  by  imperceptible  degrees, 
like  a  travelling  glacier,  carrying  on  its  bosom  not  only 
political  parties  but  their  flag-posts  and  cantonments ; 
so  that  what  appears  to  be  an  eternal  city  founded  on 
hills  is  but  a  flying  island  of  Laputa.  It  is  for  this 
reason  in  particular  that  we  are  all  becoming  Socialists 
without  knowing  it;  by  which  I  would  not  in  the  least 
refer  to  the  acute  case  of  Mr.  Hyndman  and  his  horn- 
blowing  supporters,  sounding  their  trumps  of  a  Sunday 
within  the  walls  of  our  individualist  Jericho,  but  to 

*  First  published  in  the  Contemporary  Review,  April,  1887. 
288 


THE   DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

the  Stealthy  change  that  has  come  over  the  spirit  of 
Englishmen  and  English  legislation  A  little  while  ago, 
and  we  were  still  for  liberty;  "Crowd  a  few  more 
thousands  on  the  bench  of  Government/'  we  seemed 
to  cry ;  "  keep  her  head  direct  on  liberty,  and  we  cannot 
help  but  come  to  port.'*  This  is  over;  laisser-faire  de- 
clines in  favour;  our  legislation  grows  authoritative, 
grows  philanthropical,  bristles  with  new  duties  and 
new  penalties,  and  casts  a  spawn  of  inspectors,  who 
now  begin,  note-book  in  hand,  to  darken  the  face  of 
England.  It  may  be  right  or  wrong,  we  are  not  trying 
that;  but  one  thing  it  is  beyond  doubt:  it  is  Socialism 
in  action,  and  the  strange  thing  is  that  we  scarcely 
know  it. 

Liberty  has  served  us  a  long  while,  and  it  may  be 
time  to  seek  new  altars.  Like  all  other  principles,  she 
has  been  proved  to  be  self-exclusive  in  the  long  run. 
She  has  taken  wages  besides  (like  all  other  virtues)  and 
dutifully  served  Mammon;  so  that  many  things  we 
were  accustomed  to  admire  as  the  benefits  of  freedom 
and  common  to  all  were  truly  benefits  of  wealth,  and 
took  their  value  from  our  neighbours'  poverty.  A  few 
shocks  of  logic,  a  few  disclosures  (in  the  journalistic 
phrase)  of  what  the  freedom  of  manufacturers,  land- 
lords,  or  ship-owners  may  imply  for  operatives,  tenants, 
or  seamen,  and  we  not  unnaturally  begin  to  turn  to 
that  other  pole  of  hope,  beneficent  tyranny.  Freedom, 
to  be  desirable,  involves  kindness,  wisdom,  and  all  the 
virtues  of  the  free;  but  the  free  man  as  we  have  seen 
him  in  action  has  been,  as  of  yore,  only  the  master  of 
many  helots ;  and  the  slaves  are  still  ill  fed,  ill  clad,  ill 
taught,  ill  housed,  insolently  treated,  and  driven  to  their 

28q 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

mines  and  workshops  by  the  lash  of  famine.  So  much, 
in  other  men's  affairs,  we  have  begun  to  see  clearly; 
we  have  begun  to  despair  of  virtue  in  these  other 
men,  and  from  our  seat  in  Parliament  begin  to  discharge 
upon  them,  thick  as  arrows,  the  host  of  our  inspectors. 
The  landlord  has  long  shaken  his  head  over  the  manu- 
facturer; those  who  do  business  on  land  have  lost  all 
trust  in  the  virtues  of  the  ship-owner;  the  professions 
look  askance  upon  the  retail  traders  and  have  even 
started  their  co-operative  stores  to  ruin  them ;  and  from 
out  the  smoke-wreaths  of  Birmingham  a  finger  has 
begun  to  write  upon  the  wall  the  condemnation  of  the 
landlord.  Thus,  piece  by  piece,  do  we  condemn  each 
other,  and  yet  not  perceive  the  conclusion,  that  our 
whole  estate  is  somewhat  damnable.  Thus,  piece  by 
piece,  each  acting  against  his  neighbour,  each  sawing 
away  the  branch  on  which  some  other  interest  is  seated, 
do  we  apply  in  detail  our  Socialistic  remedies,  and  yet  not 
perceive  that  we  are  all  labouring  together  to  bring  in 
Socialism  at  large.  A  tendency  so  stupid  and  so  selfish 
is  like  to  prove  invincible;  and  if  Socialism  be  at  all  a 
practicable  rule  of  life,  there  is  every  chance  that  our 
grandchildren  will  see  the  day  and  taste  the  pleasures 
of  existence  in  something  far  liker  an  ant-heap  than  any 
previous  human  polity.  And  this  not  in  the  least  be- 
cause of  the  voice  of  Mr.  Hyndman  or  the  horns  of  his 
followers ;  but  by  the  mere  glacier  movement  of  the 
political  soil,  bearing  forward  on  its  bosom,  apparently 
undisturbed,  the  proud  camps  of  Whig  and  Tory.  If 
Mr.  Hyndman  were  a  man  of  keen  humour,  which  is  far 
from  my  conception  of  his  character,  he  might  rest 
from  his  troubling  and  look  on:  the  walls  of  Jericho 

290 


THE   DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

begin  already  to  crumble  and  dissolve.  That  great 
servile  war,  the  Armageddon  of  money  and  numbers, 
to  which  we  looked  forward  when  young,  becomes 
more  and  more  unlikely;  and  we  may  rather  look  to 
see  a  peaceable  and  blindfold  evolution,  the  work  of 
dull  men  immersed  in  political  tactics  and  dead  to  polit- 
ical results. 

The  principal  scene  of  this  comedy  lies,  of  course,  in 
the  House  of  Commons;  it  is  there,  besides,  that  the 
details  of  this  new  evolution  (if  it  proceed)  will  fall  to 
be  decided ;  so  that  the  state  of  Parliament  is  not  only 
diagnostic  of  the  present  but  fatefully  prophetic  of  the 
future.  Well,  we  all  know  what  Parliament  is,  and 
we  are  all  ashamed  of  it.  We  may  pardon  it  some 
faults,  indeed,  on  the  ground  of  Irish  obstruction— a 
bitter  trial,  which  it  supports  with  notable  good-humour. 
But  the  excuse  is  merely  local;  it  cannot  apply  to  similar 
bodies  in  America  and  France ;  and  what  are  we  to  say 
of  these.?  President  Cleveland's  letter  may  serve  as  a 
picture  of  the  one;  a  glance  at  almost  any  paper  will 
convince  us  of  the  weakness  of  the  other.  Decay  ap- 
pears to  have  seized  on  the  organ  of  popular  government 
in  every  land;  and  this  just  at  the  moment  when  we 
begin  to  bring  to  it,  as  to  an  oracle  of  justice,  the  whole 
skein  of  our  private  affairs  to  be  unravelled,  and  ask  it, 
like  a  new  Messiah,  to  take  upon  itself  our  frailties  and 
play  for  us  the  part  that  should  be  played  by  our  own 
virtues.  For  that,  in  few  words,  is  the  case.  We 
cannot  trust  ourselves  to  behave  with  decency;  we 
cannot  trust  our  consciences ;  and  the  remedy  proposed 
is  to  elect  a  round  number  of  our  neighbours,  pretty 
much  at  random,  and  say  to  these :  "  Be  ye  our  con- 

291 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

science;  make  laws  so  wise,  and  continue  from  year 
to  year  to  administer  them  so  wisely,  that  they  shall 
save  us  from  ourselves  and  make  us  righteous  and 
happy,  world  without  end.  Amen."  And  who  can 
look  twice  at  the  British  Parliament  and  then  seriously 
bring  it  such  a  task  ?  I  am  not  advancing  this  as  an 
argument  against  Socialism:  once  again,  nothing  is 
further  from  my  mind.  There  are  great  truths  in 
Socialism,  or  no  one,  not  even  Mr.  Hyndman,  would 
be  found  to  hold  it;  and  if  it  came,  and  did  one-tenth 
part  of  what  it  offers,  I  for  one  should  make  it  welcome. 
But  if  it  is  to  come,  we  may  as  well  have  some  notion 
of  what  it  will  be  like;  and  the  first  thing  to  grasp  is 
that  our  new  polity  will  be  designed  and  administered 
(to  put  it  courteously)  with  something  short  of  inspira- 
tion. It  will  be  made,  or  will  grow,  in  a  human  parlia- 
ment; and  the  one  thing  that  will  not  very  hugely 
change  is  human  nature.  The  Anarchists  think  other- 
wise, from  which  it  is  only  plain  that  they  have  not 
carried  to  the  study  of  history  the  lamp  of  human  sym- 
pathy. 

Given,  then,  our  new  polity,  with  its  new  wagon- 
load  of  laws,  what  head-marks  must  we  look  for  in  the 
life.^  We  chafe  a  good  deal  at  that  excellent  thing,  the 
income  tax,  because  it  brings  into  our  affairs  the  prying 
fingers,  and  exposes  us  to  the  tart  words,  of  the  official. 
The  official,  in  all  degrees,  is  already  something  of  a 
terror  to  many  of  us.  I  would  not  willingly  have  to  do 
with  even  a  police  constable  in  any  other  spirit  than 
that  of  kindness.  I  still  remember  in  my  dreams  the 
eye-glass  of  a  certain  attache  at  a  certain  embassy— an 
eye-glass  that  was  a  standing  indignity  to  all  on  whom 

292 


THE   DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

it  looked ;  and  my  next  most  disagreeable  remembrance 
is  of  a  bracing,  Republican  postman  in  the  city  of  San 
FranciscOo  I  lived  in  that  city  among  working-folk, 
and  what  my  neighbours  accepted  at  the  postman's 
hands— nay,  what  I  took  from  him  myself— it  is  still 
distasteful  to  recall.  The  bourgeois,  residing  in  the 
upper  parts  of  society,  has  but  few  opportunities  of 
tasting  this  peculiar  bowl ;  but  about  the  income  tax, 
as  I  have  said,  or  perhaps  about  a  patent,  or  in  the 
halls  of  an  embassy  at  the  hands  of  my  friend  of  the 
eye-glass,  he  occasionally  sets  his  lips  to  it;  and  he 
may  thus  imagine  (if  he  has  that  faculty  of  imagination, 
without  which  most  faculties  are  void)  how  it  tastes  to 
his  poorer  neighbours,  who  must  drain  it  to  the  dregs. 
In  every  contact  with  authority,  with  their  employer, 
with  the  police,  with  the  School  Board  officer,  in  the 
hospital,  or  in  the  workhouse,  they  have  equally  the 
occasion  to  appreciate  the  light-hearted  civility  of  the 
man  in  office ;  and  as  an  experimentalist  in  several  out- 
of-the-way  provinces  of  life,  I  may  say  it  has  but  to  be 
felt  to  be  appreciated.  Well,  this  golden  age  of  which 
we  are  speaking  will  be  the  golden  age  of  officials.  In 
all  our  concerns  it  will  be  their  beloved  duty  to  meddle, 
with  what  tact,  with  what  obliging  words,  analogy 
will  aid  us  to  imagine.  It  is  likely  these  gentlemen  will 
be  periodically  elected;  they  will  therefore  have  their 
turn  of  being  underneath,  which  does  not  always 
sweeten  men's  conditions.  The  laws  they  will  have 
to  administer  will  be  no  clearer  than  those  we  know 
to-day,  and  the  body  which  is  to  regulate  their  adminis- 
tration no  wiser  than  the  British  Parliament.  So  that 
upon  all  hands  we  may  look  for  a  form  of  servitude 

393 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

most  galling  to  the  blood— servitude  to  many  and 
changing  masters— and  for  all  the  slights  that  accom- 
pany the  rule  of  Jack  in  office.  And  if  the  Socialistic 
programme  be  carried  out  with  the  least  fulness,  we 
shall  have  lost  a  thing  in  most  respects  not  much  to 
be  regretted,  but,  as  a  moderator  of  oppression,  a  thing 
nearly  invaluable— the  newspaper.  For  the  indepen- 
dent journal  is  a  creature  of  capital  and  competition; 
it  stands  and  falls  with  millionaires  and  railway-bonds 
and  all  the  abuses  and  glories  of  to-day;  and  as  soon 
as  the  State  has  fairly  taken  its  bent  to  authority  and 
philanthropy,  and  laid  the  least  touch  on  private  prop- 
erty, the  days  of  the  independent  journal  are  numbered. 
State  railways  may  be  good  things,  and  so  may  State 
bakeries;  but  a  State  newspaper  will  never  be  a  very 
trenchant  critic  of  the  State  officials. 

But  again,  these  officials  would  have  no  sinecure. 
Crime  would  perhaps  be  less,  for  some  of  the  notives 
of  crime  we  may  suppose  would  pass  away.  But  if 
Socialism  were  carried  out  with  any  fulness,  there 
would  be  more  contraventions.  We  see  already  new 
sins  springing  up  like  mustard— School  Board  sins, 
factory  sins.  Merchant  Shipping  Act  sins— none  of 
which  I  would  be  thought  to  except  against  in  particu- 
lar, but  all  of  which,  taken  together,  show  us  that 
Socialism  can  be  a  hard  master  even  in  the  beginning. 
If  it  go  on  to  such  heights  as  we  hear  proposed  and 
lauded,  if  it  come  actually  to  its  ideal  of  the  ant-heap, 
ruled  with  iron  justice,  the  number  of  new  contraven- 
tions will  be  out  of  all  proportion  multiplied.  Take  the 
case  of  work  alone.  Man  is  an  idle  animal.  He  is  at 
least  as  intelligent  as  the  ant;  but  generations  of  ad- 

294 


THE   DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

visers  have  in  vain  recommended  him  the  ant's  example. 
Of  those  who  are  found  truly  indefatigable  in  business, 
some  are  misers;  some  are  the  practisers  of  delightful 
industries,  like  gardening;  some  are  students,  artists, 
inventors,  or  discoverers,  men  lured  forward  by  suc- 
cessive hopes;  and  the  rest  are  those  who  live  by 
games  of  skill  or  hazard— financiers,  billiard-players, 
gamblers,  and  the  like.  But  in  unloved  toils,  even 
under  the  prick  of  necessity,  no  man  is  continually 
sedulous.  Once  eliminate  the  fear  of  starvation,  once 
eliminate  or  bound  the  hope  of  riches,  and  we  shall  see 
plenty  of  skulking  and  malingering.  Society  will  then 
be  something  not  wholly  unlike  a  cotton  plantation  in 
the  old  days ;  with  cheerful,  careless,  demoralised  slaves, 
with  elected  overseers,  and,  instead  of  the  planter,  a 
chaotic  popular  assembly.  If  the  blood  be  purposeful 
and  the  soil  strong,  such  a  plantation  may  succeed,  and 
be,  indeed,  a  busy  ant-heap,  with  full  granaries  and 
long  hours  of  leisure.  But  even  then  I  think  the  whip 
will  be  in  the  overseer's  hand,  and  not  in  vain.  For, 
when  it  comes  to  be  a  question  of  each  man  doing  his 
own  share  or  the  rest  doing  more,  prettiness  of  senti- 
ment will  be  forgotten.  To  dock  the  skulker's  food  is 
not  enough ;  many  will  rather  eat  haws  and  starve  on 
petty  pilferings  than  put  their  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
for  one  hour  daily„  For  such  as  these,  then,  the  whip 
will  be  in  the  overseer's  hand;  and  his  own  sense  of 
justice  and  the  superintendence  of  a  chaotic  popular 
assembly  will  be  the  only  checks  on  its  employment. 
Now,  you  may  be  an  industrious  man  and  a  good  citi- 
zen, and  yet  not  love,  nor  yet  be  loved  by.  Dr.  Fell  the 
inspector.     It  is  admitted  by  private  soldiers  that  the 

295 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

disfavour  of  a  sergeant  is  an  evil  not  to  be  combated ; 
offend  the  sergeant,  they  say,  and  in  a  brief  while  you 
will  either  be  disgraced  or  have  deserted.  And  the 
sergeant  can  no  longer  appeal  to  the  lash.  But  if  these 
things  go  on,  we  shall  see,  or  our  sons  shall  see,  what 
it  is  to  have  offended  an  inspector. 

This  for  the  unfortunate.  But  with  the  fortunate 
also,  even  those  whom  the  inspector  loves,  it  may  not 
be  altogether  well.  It  is  concluded  that  in  such  a  state 
of  society,  supposing  it  to  be  financially  sound,  the  level 
of  comfort  will  be  high.  It  does  not  follow:  there  are 
strange  depths  of  idleness  in  man,  a  too-easily-got  suffi- 
ciency, as  in  the  case  of  the  sago-eaters,  often  quenching 
the  desire  for  all  besides ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  men 
of  the  richest  ant-heaps  may  sink  even  into  squalor. 
But  suppose  they  do  not;  suppose  our  tricksy  instru- 
ment of  human  nature,  when  we  play  upon  it  this  new 
tune,  should  respond  kindly;  suppose  no  one  to  be 
damped  and  none  exasperated  by  the  new  conditions, 
the  whole  enterprise  to  be  financially  sound— a  vaulting 
supposition— and  all  the  inhabitants  to  dwell  together 
in  a  golden  mean  of  comfort:  we  have  yet  to  ask  our- 
selves if  this  be  what  man  desire,  or  if  it  be  what  man 
will  even  deign  to  accept  for  a  continuance.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  man  loves  to  eat;  it  is  not  certain  that  he  loves 
that  only  or  that  best.  He  is  supposed  to  love  comfort ; 
it  is  not  a  love,  at  least,  that  he  is  faithful  to.  He  is 
supposed  to  love  happiness;  it  is  my  contention  that  he 
rather  loves  excitement.  Danger,  enterprise,  hope,  the 
novel,  the  aleatory,  are  dearer  to  man  than  regular 
meals.  He  does  not  think  so  when  he  is  hungry,  but 
he  thinks  so  again  as  soon  as  he  is  fed;  and  on  the 

396 


THE  DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

hypothesis  of  a  successful  ant-heap,  he  would  never 
go  hungry.  It  would  be  always  after  dinner  in  that 
society,  as,  in  the  land  of  the  Lotus-eaters,  it  was  always 
afternoon;  and  food,  which,  when  we  have  it  not, 
seems  all-important,  drops  in  our  esteem,  as  soon  as 
we  have  it,  to  a  mere  prerequisite  of  living. 

That  for  which  man  lives  is  not  the  same  thing  for 
all  individuals  nor  in  all  ages;  yet  it  has  a  common 
base;  what  he  seeks  and  what  he  must  have  is  that 
which  will  seize  and  hold  his  attention.  Regular  meals 
and  weather-proof  lodgings  will  not  do  this  long.  Play 
in  its  wide  sense,  as  the  artificial  induction  of  sensation, 
including  all  games  and  all  arts,  will,  indeed,  go  far  to 
keep  him  conscious  of  himself;  but  in  the  end  he  wearies 
for  realities.  Study  or  experiment,  to  some  rare  natures, 
is  the  unbroken  pastime  of  a  life.  These  are  enviable 
natures;  people  shut  in  the  house  by  sickness  often 
bitterly  envy  them;  but  the  commoner  man  cannot 
continue  to  exist  upon  such  altitudes :  his  feet  itch  for 
physical  adventure ;  his  blood  boils  for  physical  dangers, 
pleasures,  and  triumphs;  his  fancy,  the  looker  after 
new  things,  cannot  continue  to  look  for  them  in  books 
and  crucibles,  but  must  seek  them  on  the  breathing 
stage  of  life.  Pinches,  buffets,  the  glow  of  hope,  the 
shock  of  disappointment,  furious  contention  with  ob- 
stacles :  these  are  the  true  elixir  for  all  vital  spirits,  these 
are  what  they  seek  alike  in  their  romantic  enterprises 
and  their  unromantic  dissipations.  When  they  are 
taken  in  some  pinch  closer  than  the  common,  they 
cry,  "Catch  me  here  again!"  and  sure  enough  you 
catch  them  there  again— perhaps  before  the  week  is 
out.     It  is  as  old  as  Robinson  Crusoe;  as  old  as  man. 

297 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

Our  race  has  not  been  strained  for  all  these  ages  through 
that  sieve  of  dangers  that  we  call  Natural  Selection,  to 
sit  down  with  patience  in  the  tedium  of  safety;  the 
voices  of  its  fathers  call  it  forth.  Already  in  our  society 
as  it  exists,  the  bourgeois  is  too  much  cottoned  about 
for  any  zest  in  living;,  he  sits  in  his  parlour  out  of  reach 
of  any  danger,  often  out  of  reach  of  any  vicissitudes 
but  one  of  health ;  and  there  he  yawns.  If  the  people 
in  the  next  villa  took  pot-shots  at  him,  he  might  be 
killed  indeed,  but  so  long  as  he  escaped  he  would  fmd 
his  blood  oxygenated  and  his  views  of  the  world 
brighter.  If  Mr.  Mallock,  on  his  way  to  the  publishers, 
should  have  his  skirts  pinned  to  the  wall  by  a  javelin, 
it  would  not  occur  to  him— at  least  for  several  hours— 
to  ask  if  life  were  worth  living;  and  if  such  peril  were 
a  daily  matter,  he  would  ask  it  nevermore;  he  would 
have  other  things  to  think  about,  he  would  be  living 
indeed— not  lying  in  a  box  with  cotton,  safe,  but  im- 
measurably dull.  The  aleatory,  whether  it  touch  life, 
or  fortune,  or  renown— whether  we  explore  Africa  or 
only  toss  for  halfpence— that  is  what  I  conceive  men 
to  love  best,  and  that  is  what  we  are  seeking  to  exclude 
from  men's  existences.  Of  all  forms  of  the  aleatory, 
that  which  most  commonly  attends  our  working-men 
—the  danger  of  misery  from  want  of  work— is  the  least 
inspiriting:  it  does  not  whip  the  blood,  it  does  not  evoke 
the  glory  of  contest;  it  is  tragic,  but  it  is  passive;  and 
yet,  in  so  far  as  it  is  aleatory,  and  a  peril  sensibly  touch- 
ing them,  it  does  truly  season  the  men's  lives.  Of  those 
who  fail,  I  do  not  speak— despair  should  be  sacred; 
but  to  those  who  even  modestly  succeed,  the  changes 
of  their  life  bring  interest:  a  job  found,  a  shilling  saved, 

298 


THE   DAY  AFTER  TO-MORROW 

a  dainty  earned,  all  these  are  wells  of  pleasure  spring- 
ing afresh  for  the  successful  poor;  and  it  is  not  from 
these  but  from  the  villa-dweller  that  we  hear  complaints 
of  the  unworthiness  of  life.  Much,  then,  as  the  average 
of  the  proletariat  would  gain  in  this  new  state  of  life, 
they  would  also  lose  a  certain  something,  which  would 
not  be  missed  in  the  beginning,  but  would  be  missed 
progressively,  and  progressively  lamented.  Soon  there 
would  be  a  looking  back :  there  would  be  tales  of  the 
old  world  humming  in  young  men's  ears,  tales  of  the 
tramp  and  the  pedlar,  and  the  hopeful  emigrant.  And 
in  the  stall-fed  life  of  the  successful  ant-heap— with  its 
regular  meals,  regular  duties,  regular  pleasures,  an  even 
course  of  life,  and  fear  excluded— the  vicissitudes,  de- 
lights, and  havens  of  to-day  will  seem  of  epic  breadth. 
This  may  seem  a  shallow  observation ;  but  the  springs 
by  which  men  are  moved  lie  much  on  the  surface. 
Bread,  I  believe,  has  always  been  considered  first,  but 
the  circus  comes  close  upon  its  heels.  Bread  we  sup- 
pose to  be  given  amply;  the  cry  for  circuses  will  be 
the  louder,  and  if  the  life  of  our  descendants  be  such 
as  we  have  conceived,  there  are  two  beloved  pleasures 
on  which  they  will  be  likely  to  fall  back :  the  pleasures 
of  intrigue  and  of  sedition. 

In  all  this  I  have  supposed  the  ant-heap  to  be  finan- 
cially sound.  I  am  no  economist,  only  a  writer  of 
fiction;  but  even  as  such,  I  know  one  thing  that  bears 
on  the  economic  question— I  know  the  imperfection  of 
man's  faculty  for  business.  The  Anarchists,  who  count 
some  rugged  elements  of  common-sense  among  what 
seem  to  me  their  tragic  errors,  have  said  upon  this 
matter  all  that  I  could  wish  to  say,  and  condemned  be- 

299 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

forehand  great  economical  polities.  So  far  it  is  obvious 
that  they  are  right;  they  may  be  right  also  in  predicting 
a  period  of  communal  independence,  and  they  may 
even  be  right  in  thinking  that  desirable.  But  the  rise 
of  communes  is  none  the  less  the  end  of  economic 
equality,  just  when  we  were  told  it  was  beginning. 
Communes  will  not  be  all  equal  in  extent,  nor  in  quality 
of  soil,  nor  in  growth  of  population ;  nor  will  the  sur- 
plus produce  of  all  be  equally  marketable.  It  will  be 
the  old  story  of  competing  interests,  only  with  a  new 
unit;  and,  as  it  appears  to  me,  a  new,  inevitable  danger. 
For  the  merchant  and  the  manufacturer,  in  this  new 
world,  will  be  a  sovereign  commune;  it  is  a  sovereign 
power  that  will  see  its  crops  undersold,  and  its  manu- 
factures worsted  in  the  market.  And  all  the  more 
dangerous  that  the  sovereign  power  should  be  small. 
Great  powers  are  slow  to  stir;  national  affronts,  even 
with  the  aid  of  newspapers,  filter  slowly  into  popular 
consciousness;  national  losses  are  so  unequally  shared 
that  one  part  of  the  population  will  be  counting  its  gains 
while  another  sits  by  a  cold  hearth.  But  in  the  sover- 
eign commune  all  will  be  centralised  and  sensitive. 
When  jealousy  springs  up,  when  (let  us  say)  the 
commune  of  Poole  has  overreached  the  commune  of 
Dorchester,  irritation  will  run  like  quicksilver  throughout 
the  body  politic ;  each  man  in  Dorchester  will  have  to 
suffer  directly  in  his  diet  and  his  dress ;  even  the  secre- 
tary, who  drafts  the  official  correspondence,  will  sit 
down  to  his  task  embittered,  as  a  man  who  has  dined 
ill  and  may  expect  to  dine  worse;  and  thus  a  business 
difference  between  communes  will  take  on  much  the 
same  colour  as  a  dispute  between  diggers  in  the  lawless 

300 


THE   DAY   AFTER  TO-MORROW 

West,  and  will  lead  as  directly  to  the  arbitrament  of 
blows.  So  that  the  establishment  of  the  communal 
system  will  not  only  reintroduce  all  the  injustices  and 
heartburnings  of  economic  inequality,  but  will,  in  all 
human  likelihood,  inaugurate  a  world  of  hedgerow  war- 
fare. Dorchester  will  march  on  Poole,  Sherborne  on 
Dorchester,  Wimborne  on  both;  the  wagons  will  be 
fired  on  as  they  follow  the  highway,  the  trains  wrecked 
on  the  lines,  the  ploughman  will  go  armed  into  the 
field  of  tillage;  and  if  we  have  not  a  return  of  ballad 
literature,  the  local  press  at  least  will  celebrate  in  a  high 
vein  the  victory  of  Cerne  Abbas  or  the  reverse  of  Toller 
Porcorum.  At  least  this  will  not  be  dull;  when  I  was 
younger,  I  could  have  welcomed  such  a  world  with 
relief;  but  it  is  the  New-Old  with  a  vengeance,  and  irre- 
sistibly suggests  the  growth  of  military  powers  and  the 
foundation  of  new  empires. 


BOOKS  WHICH  HAVE  INFLUENCED  ME^ 

The  Editor  2  has  somewhat  insidiously  laid  a  trap  for 
his  correspondents,  the  question  put  appearing  at  first 
so  innocent,  truly  cutting  so  deep.  It  is  not,  indeed, 
until  after  some  reconnaissance  and  review  that  the 
writer  awakes  to  find  himself  engaged  upon  something 
in  the  nature  of  autobiography,  or,  perhaps  worse,  upon 
a  chapter  in  the  life  of  that  little,  beautiful  brother 
whom  we  once  all  had,  and  whom  we  have  all  lost 
and  mourned,  the  man  we  ought  to  have  been,  the 
man  we  hoped  to  be.  But  when  word  has  been  passed 
(even  to  an  editor),  it  should,  if  possible,  be  kept;  and 
if  sometimes  I  am  wise  and  say  too  little,  and  some- 
times weak  and  say  too  much,  the  blame  must  lie  at 
the  door  of  the  person  who  entrapped  me. 

The  most  influential  books,  and  the  truest  in  their 
influence,  are  works  of  fiction.  They  do  not  pin  the 
reader  to  a  dogma,  which  he  must  afterwards  discover 
to  be  inexact;  they  do  not  teach  him  a  lesson,  which 
he  must  afterwards  unlearn.  They  repeat,  they  rear- 
range, they  clarify  the  lessons  of  life;  they  disengage 

1  First  published  in  the  British  JVeekly^  May  13,  1887. 
«  Of  the  British  IVeekly. 

302 


BOOKS  WHICH   HAVE   INFLUENCED   ME 

US  from  ourselves,  they  constrain  us  to  the  acquaintance 
of  others;  and  they  show  us  the  web  of  experience, 
not  as  we  can  see  it  for  ourselves,  but  with  a  singular 
change— that  monstrous,  consuming  ego  of  ours  being, 
for  the  nonce,  struck  out.  To  be  so,  they  must  be 
reasonably  true  to  the  human  comedy;  and  any  work 
that  is  so  serves  the  turn  of  instruction.  But  the  course 
of  our  education  is  answered  best  by  those  poems  and 
romances  where  we  breathe  a  magnanimous  atmo- 
sphere of  thought  and  meet  generous  and  pious  char- 
acters. Shakespeare  has  served  me  best.  Few  living 
friends  have  had  upon  me  an  influence  so  strong  for 
good  as  Hamlet  or  Rosalind.  The  last  character,  already 
well  beloved  in  the  reading,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see, 
I  must  think,  in  an  impressionable  hour,  played  by  Mrs. 
Scott  Siddons.  Nothing  has  ever  more  moved,  more 
delighted,  more  refreshed  me;  nor  has  the  influence 
quite  passed  away.  Kent's  brief  speech  over  the  dying 
Lear  had  a  great  effect  upon  my  mind,  and  was  the 
burthen  of  my  reflections  for  long,  so  profoundly,  so 
touchingly  generous  did  it  appear  in  sense,  so  over- 
powering in  expression.  Perhaps  my  dearest  and  best 
friend  outside  of  Shakespeare  is  D'Artagnan— the  elderly 
D'Artagnan  of  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne.  I  know  not 
a  more  human  soul,  nor,  in  his  way,  a  finer;  I  shall  be 
very  sorry  for  the  man  who  is  so  much  of  a  pedant  in 
morals  that  he  cannot  learn  from  the  Captain  of  Mus- 
keteers. Lastly,  I  must  name  the  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
a  book  that  breathes  of  every  beautiful  and  valuable 
emotion. 

But  of  works  of  art  little  can  be  said ;  their  influence 
is  profound  and  silent,  like  the  influence  of  nature ;  they 

303 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

mould  by  contact;  we  drink  them  up  like  water,  and 
are  bettered,  yet  know  not  how.  It  is  in  books  more 
specifically  didactic  that  we  can  follow  out  the  effect, 
and  distinguish  and  weigh  and  compare.  A  book 
which  has  been  very  influential  upon  me  fell  early  into 
my  hands,  and  so  may  stand  first,  though  I  think  its 
influence  was  only  sensible  later  on,  and  perhaps  still 
keeps  growing,  for  it  is  a  book  not  easily  outlived: 
the  Essais  of  Montaigne.  That  temperate  and  genial 
picture  of  life  is  a  great  gift  to  place  in  the  hands  of 
persons  of  to-day;  they  will  find  in  these  smiling  pages 
a  magazine  of  heroism  and  wisdom,  all  of  an  antique 
strain ;  they  will  have  their  "  linen  decencies  "  and  ex- 
cited orthodoxies  fluttered,  and  will  (if  they  have  any 
gift  of  reading)  perceive  that  these  have  not  been  flut- 
tered without  some  excuse  and  ground  of  reason ;  and 
(again  if  they  have  any  gift  of  reading)  they  will  end 
by  seeing  that  this  old  gentleman  was  in  a  dozen  ways 
a  finer  fellow,  and  held  in  a  dozen  ways  a  nobler  view 
of  life,  than  they  or  their  contemporaries. 

The  next  book,  in  order  of  time,  to  influence  me,  was 
the  New  Testament,  and  in  particular  the  Gospel  ac- 
cording to  St.  Matthew.  I  believe  it  would  startle  and 
move  any  one  if  they  could  make  a  certain  effort  of 
imagination  and  read  it  freshly  like  a  book,  not  dron- 
ingly and  dully  like  a  portion  of  the  Bible.  Any  one 
would  then  be  able  to  see  in  it  those  truths  which  we 
are  all  courteously  supposed  to  know  and  all  modestly 
refrain  from  applying.  But  upon  this  subject  it  is  per- 
haps better  to  be  silent. 

I  come  next  to  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass,  a  book 
of  singular  service,  a  book  which  tumbled  the  world 

304 


BOOKS  WHICH   HAVE   INFLUENCED  ME 

upside  down  for  me,  blew  into  space  a  thousand  cob- 
webs of  genteel  and  ethical  illusion,  and,  having  thus 
shaken  my  tabernacle  of  lies,  set  me  back  again  upon 
a  strong  foundation  of  all  the  original  and  manly  vir- 
tues. But  it  is,  once  more,  only  a  book  for  those  who 
have  the  gift  of  reading.  I  will  be  very  frank— I  believe 
it  is  so  with  all  good  books  except,  perhaps,  fiction. 
The  average  man  lives,  and  must  live,  so  wholly  in 
convention,  that  gunpowder  charges  of  the  truth  are 
more  apt  to  discompose  than  to  invigorate  his  creed. 
Either  he  cries  out  upon  blasphemy  and  indecency,  and 
crouches  the  closer  round  that  little  idol  of  part-truths 
and  part-conveniences  which  is  the  contemporary  deity, 
or  he  is  convinced  by  what  is  new,  forgets  what  is  old, 
and  becomes  truly  blasphemous  and  indecent  himself. 
New  truth  is  only  useful  to  supplement  the  old ;  rough 
truth  is  only  wanted  to  expand,  not  to  destroy,  our 
civil  and  often  elegant  conventions.  He  who  cannot 
judge  had  better  stick  to  fiction  and  the  daily  papers. 
There  he  will  get  little  harm,  and,  in  the  first  at  least, 
some  good. 

Close  upon  the  back  of  my  discovery  of  Whitman, 
I  came  under  the  influence  of  Herbert  Spencer.  No 
more  persuasive  rabbi  exists,  and  few  better.  How 
much  of  his  vast  structure  will  bear  the  touch  of  time, 
how  much  is  clay  and  how  much  brass,  it  were  too 
curious  to  inquire.  But  his  words,  if  dry,  are  always 
manly  and  honest;  there  dwells  in  his  pages  a  spirit  of 
highly  abstract  joy,  plucked  naked  like  an  algebraic 
symbol  but  still  joyful;  and  the  reader  will  fmd  there  a 
caput  mortuum  of  piety,  with  little  indeed  of  its  loveli- 
ness, but  with  most  of  its  essentials;  and  these  two 

305 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

qualities  make  him  a  wholesome,  as  his  intellectual 
vigour  makes  him  a  bracing,  writer.  I  should  be  much 
of  a  hound  if  I  lost  my  gratitude  to  Herbert  Spencer. 

Goethe's  Life,  by  Lewes,  had  a  great  importance  for 
me  when  it  first  fell  into  my  hands— a  strange  instance 
of  the  partiality  of  man's  good  and  man's  evil.  I  know 
no  one  whom  I  less  admire  than  Goethe;  he  seems  a 
very  epitome  of  the  sins  of  genius,  breaking  open  the 
doors  of  private  life,  and  wantonly  wounding  friends, 
in  that  crowning  offence  of  Werther,  and  in  his  own 
character  a  mere  pen-and-ink  Napoleon,  conscious  of 
the  rights  and  duties  of  superior  talents  as  a  Spanish 
inquisitor  was  conscious  of  the  rights  and  duties  of  his 
office.  And  yet  in  his  fine  devotion  to  his  art,  in  his 
honest  and  serviceable  friendship  for  Schiller,  what 
lessons  are  contained !  Biography,  usually  so  false  to 
its  office,  does  here  for  once  perform  for  us  some  of  the 
work  of  fiction,  reminding  us,  that  is,  of  the  truly 
mingled  tissue  of  man's  nature,  and  how  huge  faults 
and  shining  virtues  cohabit  and  persevere  in  the  same 
character.  History  serves  us  well  to  this  effect,  but  in 
the  originals,  not  in  the  pages  of  the  popular  epitomiser, 
who  is  bound,  by  the  very  nature  of  his  task,  to  make 
us  feel  the  difference  of  epochs  instead  of  the  essential 
identity  of  man,  and  even  in  the  originals  only  to  those 
who  can  recognise  their  own  human  virtues  and  defects 
in  strange  forms,  often  inverted  and  under  strange 
names,  often  interchanged.  Martial  is  a  poet  of  no 
good  repute,  and  it  gives  a  man  new  thoughts  to  read 
his  works  dispassionately,  and  find  in  this  unseemly 
jester's  serious  passages  the  image  of  a  kind,  wise,  and 
self-respecting  gentleman.     It  is  customary,  I  suppose, 

306 


BOOKS  WHICH   HAVE  INFLUENCED   ME 

in  reading  Martial,  to  leave  out  these  pleasant  verses ;  I 
never  heard  of  them,  at  least,  until  I  found  them  for 
myself;  and  this  partiality  is  one  among  a  thousand 
things  that  help  to  build  up  our  distorted  and  hysterical 
conception  of  the  great  Roman  Empire. 

This  brings  us  by  a  natural  transition  to  a  very  noble 
book— the  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  The  dis- 
passionate gravity,  the  noble  forgetfulness  of  self,  the 
tenderness  of  others,  that  are  there  expressed  and  were 
practised  on  so  great  a  scale  in  the  life  of  its  writer, 
make  this  book  a  book  quite  by  itself.  No  one  can 
read  it  and  not  be  moved.  Yet  it  scarcely  or  rarely 
appeals  to  the  feelings— those  very  mobile,  those  not 
very  trusty  parts  of  man.  Its  address  lies  further  back : 
its  lesson  comes  more  deeply  home;  when  you  have 
read,  you  carry  away  with  you  a  memory  of  the  man 
himself;  it  is  as  though  you  had  touched  a  loyal  hand, 
looked  into  brave  eyes,  and  made  a  noble  friend ;  there 
is  another  bond  on  you  thenceforward,  binding  you  to 
life  and  to  the  love  of  virtue. 

Wordsworth  should  perhaps  come  next.  Every  one 
has  been  influenced  by  Wordsworth,  and  it  is  hard  to 
tell  precisely  how.  A  certain  innocence,  a  rugged 
austerity  of  joy,  a  sight  of  the  stars,  "  the  silence  that 
is  in  the  lonely  hills,"  something  of  the  cold  thrill  of 
dawn,  cling  to  his  work  and  give  it  a  particular  addresc* 
to  what  is  best  in  us.  I  do  not  know  that  you  learn  a 
lesson;  you  need  not— Mill  did  not— agree  with  any 
one  of  his  beliefs ;  and  yet  the  spell  is  cast.  Such  are 
the  best  teachers :  a  dogma  learned  is  only  a  new  error 
—the  old  one  was  perhaps  as  good ;  but  a  spirit  com- 
municated   is   a   perpetual    possession.      These    best 

307 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

teachers  climb  beyond  teaching  to  the  plane  of  art;  it 
is  themselves,  and  what  is  best  in  themselves,  that 
they  communicate. 

I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  I  forgot  The  Egoist 
It  is  art,  if  you  like,  but  it  belongs  purely  to  didactic 
art,  and  from  all  the  novels  1  have  read  (and  I  have  read 
thousands)  stands  in  a  place  by  itself.  Here  is  a  Nathan 
for  the  modern  David;  here  is  a  book  to  send  the  blood 
into  men's  faces.  Satire,  the  angry  picture  of  human 
faults,  is  not  great  art;  we  can  all  be  angry  with  our 
neighbour;  what  we  want  is  to  be  shown,  not  his  de- 
fects, of  which  we  are  too  conscious,  but  his  merits, 
to  which  we  are  too  blind.  And  The  Egoist  is  a  satire ; 
so  much  must  be  allowed;  but  it  is  a  satire  of  a  singular 
quality,  which  tells  you  nothing  of  that  obvious  mote, 
which  is  engaged  from  first  to  last  with  that  invisible 
beam.  It  is  yourself  that  is  hunted  down;  these  are 
your  own  faults  that  are  dragged  into  the  day  and 
numbered,  with  lingering  relish,  with  cruel  cunning 
and  precision.  A  young  friend  of  Mr.  Meredith's  (as  I 
have  the  story)  came  to  him  in  an  agony.  "  This  is 
too  bad  of  you,"  he  cried.  "Willoughby  is  me!" 
**No,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  author;  "he  is  all  of 
us."  I  have  read  The  Egoist  five  or  six  times  myself, 
and  I  mean  to  read  it  again;  for  I  am  like  the  young 
friend  of  the  anecdote— I  think  Willoughby  an  unmanly 
but  a  very  serviceable  exposure  of  myself. 

I  suppose,  when  I  am  done,  I  shall  find  that  I  have 
forgotten  much  that  was  most  influential,  as  I  see 
already  I  have  forgotten  Thoreau,  and  Hazlitt,  whose 
paper  "  On  the  Spirit  of  Obligations  "  was  a  turning- 
point  in  my  life,  and  Penn,  whose  little  book  of  apho- 

308 


BOOKS  WHICH   HAVE  INFLUENCED   ME 

risms  had  a  brief  but  strong  effect  on  me,  and  Mitford's 
Tales  of  Old  Japan,  wherein  I  learned  for  the  first  time 
the  proper  attitude  of  any  rational  man  to  his  country's 
laws— a  secret  found,  and  kept,  in  the  Asiatic  islands. 
That  I  should  commemorate  all  is  more  than  I  can  hope 
or  the  Editor  could  ask.  It  will  be  more  to  the  point, 
after  having  said  so  much  upon  improving  books,  to 
say  a  word  or  two  about  the  improvable  reader.  The 
gift  of  reading,  as  1  have  called  it,  is  not  very  common, 
nor  very  generally  understood.  It  consists,  first  of  all, 
in  a  vast  intellectual  endowment— a  free  grace,  I  find  I 
must  call  it— by  which  a  man  rises  to  understand  that 
he  is  not  punctually  right,  nor  those  from  whom  he 
differs  absolutely  wrong.  He  may  hold  dogmas;  he 
may  hold  them  passionately;  and  he  may  know  that 
others  hold  them  but  coldly,  or  hold  them  differently, 
or  hold  them  not  at  all.  Well,  if  he  has  the  gift  of 
reading,  these  others  will  be  full  of  meat  for  him.  They 
will  see  the  other  side  of  propositions  and  the  other 
side  of  virtues.  He  need  not  change  his  dogma  for 
that,  but  he  may  change  his  reading  of  that  dogma,  and 
he  must  supplement  and  correct  his  deductions  from 
it.  A  human  truth,  which  is  always  very  much  a  lie, 
hides  as  much  of  life  as  it  displays.  It  is  men  who  hold 
another  truth,  or,  as  it  seems  to  us,  perhaps,  a  danger- 
ous lie,  who  can  extend  our  restricted  field  of  know- 
ledge, and  rouse  our  drowsy  consciences.  Something 
that  seems  quite  new,  or  that  seems  insolently  false 
or  very  dangerous,  is  the  test  of  a  reader.  If  he 
tries  to  see  what  it  means,  what  truth  excuses  it, 
he  has  the  gift,  and  let  him  read.  If  he  is  merely 
hurt,  or  offended,  or  exclaims  upon  his  author's  folly, 

309 


LITERARY   PAPERS 

he  had  better  take  to  the  daily  papers;  he  will  never 
be  a  reader. 

And  here,  with  the  aptest  illustrative  force,  after  I 
have  laid  down  my  part-truth,  I  must  step  in  with  its 
opposite.  For,  after  all,  we  are  vessels  of  a  very  limited 
content.  Not  all  men  can  read  all  books ;  it  is  only  in 
a  chosen  few  that  any  man  will  find  his  appointed  food ; 
and  the  fittest  lessons  are  the  most  palatable,  and  make 
themselves  welcome  to  the  mind.  A  writer  learns  this 
early,  and  it  is  his  chief  support;  he  goes  on  unafraid, 
laying  down  the  law ;  and  he  is  sure  at  heart  that  most 
of  what  he  says  is  demonstrably  false,  and  much  of  a 
mingled  strain,  and  some  hurtful,  and  very  little  good 
for  service;  but  he  is  sure  besides  that  when  his  words 
fall  into  the  hands  of  any  genuine  reader,  they  will  be 
weighed  and  winnowed,  and  only  that  which  suits 
will  be  assimilated ;  and  when  they  fall  into  the  hands 
of  one  who  cannot  intelligently  read,  they  come  there 
quite  silent  and  inarticulate,  falling  upon  deaf  ears,  and 
his  secret  is  kept  as  if  he  had  not  written. 


310 


THE  GREAT  NORTH  ROAD 


Posthumously  published,  Illustrated  London  NewSr 
Christmas,  189$ 


Copyright,  i8p$,  hyjohn  Brishen  IValker 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I  Nance  at  the  Green  Dragon 315 

II  In  which  Mr.  Archer  is  Installed 323 

III  Jonathan  Holdaway 332 

IV  Mingling  Threads 338 

V  Life  in  the  Castle 345 

VI  The  Bad  Half-Crown 350 

VII  The  Bleaching-Green 356 

VIII  The  Mail-Guard ^6} 

Editorial  Note 570 


THE  GREAT  NORTH  ROAD 


NANCE  AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON 

NANCE  HOLDAWAY  was  on  her  knees  before  the 
fire,  blowing  the  green  wood  that  voluminously 
smoked  upon  the  dogs,  and  only  now  and  then  shot 
forth  a  smothered  flame;  her  knees  already  ached  and 
her  eyes  smarted,  for  she  had  been  some  while  at  this 
ungrateful  task,  but  her  mind  was  gone  far  away  to 
meet  the  coming  stranger.  Now  she  met  him  in  the 
wood,  now  at  the  castle  gate,  now  in  the  kitchen  by 
candle-light;  each  fresh  presentment  eclipsed  the  one 
before ;  a  form  so  elegant,  manners  so  sedate,  a  coun- 
tenance so  brave  and  comely,  a  voice  so  winning  and 
resolute— sure  such  a  man  was  never  seen !  The  thick- 
coming  fancies  poured  and  brightened  in  her  head  like 
the  smoke  and  flames  upon  the  hearth. 

Presently  the  heavy  foot  of  her  Uncle  Jonathan  was 
heard  upon  the  stair,  and  as  he  entered  the  room  she 
bent  the  closer  to  her  work.  He  glanced  at  the  green 
fagots  with  a  sneer,  and  looked  askance  at  the  bed  and 
the  white  sheets,  at  the  strip  of  carpet  laid,  like  an  island, 

3^5 


THE   GREAT   NORTH   ROAD 

on  the  great  expanse  of  the  stone  floor,  and  at  the  broken 
glazing  of  the  casement  clumsily  repaired  with  paper. 

"  Leave  that  fire  a-be,"  he  cried.  "  What,  have  I  toiled 
all  my  life  to  turn  innkeeper  at  the  hind  end  ?  Leave 
it  a-be,  I  say." 

"La,  uncle,  it  does  n't  burn  a  bit;  it  only  smokes," 
said  Nance,  looking  up  from  her  position. 

"You  are  come  of  decent  people  on  both  sides,"  re- 
turned the  old  man.  "  Who  are  you  to  blow  the  coals  for 
any  Robin-run-agate  ?  Get  up,  get  on  your  hood,  make 
yourself  useful,  and  be  off  to  the  Green  Dragon." 

"  I  thought  you  was  to  go  yourself,"  Nance  faltered. 

"So  did  I,"  quoth  Jonathan;  "but  it  appears  I  was 
mistook." 

The  very  excess  of  her  eagerness  alarmed  her,  and 
she  began  to  hang  back.  "  I  think  I  would  rather  not, 
dear  uncle,"  she  said.  "Night  is  at  hand,  and  I  think, 
dear,  I  would  rather  not. " 

"Now  you  look  here,"  replied  Jonathan;  "I  have  my 
Lord's  orders,  have  I  not  ?  Little  he  gives  me,  but  it 's 
all  my  livelihood.  And  do  you  fancy,  if  I  disobey  my 
Lord,  I  'm  likely  to  turn  round  for  a  lass  like  you  ?  No ; 
I  've  that  hell-fire  of  pain  in  my  old  knee,  I  would  n't 
walk  a  mile,  not  for  King  George  upon  his  bended 
knees."  And  he  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
down  the  steep  scarp  to  where  the  river  foamed  in  the 
bottom  of  the  dell. 

Nance  stayed  for  no  more  bidding.  In  her  own  room, 
by  the  glimmer  of  the  twilight,  she  washed  her  hands 
and  pulled  on  her  Sunday  mittens;  adjusted  her  black 
hood,  and  tied  a  dozen  times  its  cherry  ribbons;  and  in 
less  than  ten  minutes,  with  a  fluttering  heart  and  ex- 

316 


NANCE  AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON 

cellently  bright  eyes,  she  passed  forth  under  the  arch 
and  over  the  bridge,  into  the  thickening  shadows  of 
the  groves.  A  well-marked  wheel-track  conducted 
her.  The  wood,  which  upon  both  sides  of  the  river 
dell  was  a  mere  scrambling  thicket  of  hazel,  hawthorn, 
and  holly,  boasted  on  the  level  of  more  considerable 
timber.  Beeches  came  to  a  good  growth,  with  here 
and  there  an  oak;  and  the  track  now  passed  under  a 
high  arcade  of  branches,  and  now  ran  under  the  open 
sky  in  glades.  As  the  girl  proceeded  these  glades  be- 
came more  frequent,  the  trees  began  again  to  decline  in 
size,  and  the  wood  to  degenerate  into  furzy  coverts. 
Last  of  all  there  was  a  fringe  of  elders;  and  beyond 
that  the  track  came  forth  upon  an  open,  rolling  moor- 
land, dotted  with  wind-bowed  and  scanty  bushes,  and 
all  golden-brown  with  the  winter,  like  a  grouse.  Right 
over  against  the  girl  the  last  red  embers  of  the  sunset 
burned  under  horizontal  clouds ;  the  night  fell  clear  and 
still  and  frosty,  and  the  track  in  low  and  marshy  pas- 
sages began  to  crackle  underfoot  with  ice. 

Some  half  a  mile  beyond  the  borders  of  the  wood  the 
lights  of  the  Green  Dragon  hove  in  sight,  and  running 
close  beside  them,  very  faint  in  the  dying  dusk,  the 
pale  ribbon  of  the  Great  North  Road.  It  was  the  back 
of  the  post-house  that  was  presented  to  Nance  Holda- 
way;  and  as  she  continued  to  draw  near  and  the  night 
to  fall  more  completely,  she  became  aware  of  an  unusual 
brightness  and  bustle.  A  post-chaise  stood  in  the  yard, 
its  lamps  already  lighted:  light  shone  hospitably  in  the 
windows  and  from  the  open  door;  moving  lights  and 
shadows  testified  to  the  activity  of  servants  bearing 
lanterns.     The  clank  of  pails,  the  stamping  of  hoofs  on 

317 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

the  firm  causeway,  the  jingle  of  harness,  and,  last  of 
all,  the  energetic  hissing  of  a  groom,  began  to  fall  upon 
her  ear.  By  the  stir  you  would  have  thought  the  mail 
was  at  the  door,  but  it  was  still  too  early  in  the  night. 
The  down  mail  was  not  due  at  the  Green  Dragon  for 
hard  upon  an  hour;  the  up  mail  from  Scotland  not 
before  two  in  the  black  morning. 

Nance  entered  the  yard  somewhat  dazzled.  Sam, 
the  tall  hostler,  was  polishing  the  curb-chain  with  sand ; 
the  lantern  at  his  feet  letting  up  spouts  of  candle-light 
through  the  holes  with  which  its  conical  roof  was 
peppered. 

"  Hey,  miss,"  said  he,  jocularly,  "you  won't  look  at 
me  any  more,  now  you  have  gentry  at  the  castle." 

Her  cheeks  burned  with  anger. 

"That 's  my  Lord's  chay,"  the  man  continued,  nod- 
ding at  the  chaise;  "Lord  Windermoor's.  Came  all 
in  a  fluster— dinner,  bowl  of  punch,  and  put  the  horses 
to.  For  all  the  world  like  a  runaway  match,  my  dear 
—bar  the  bride.  He  brought  Mr.  Archer  in  the  chay 
with  him." 

"  Is  that  Holdaway?  "  cried  the  landlord  from  the 
lighted  entry,  where  he  stood  shading  his  eyes. 

"Only  me,  sir,"  answered  Nance. 

"O,  you.  Miss  Nance,"  he  said.  "Well,  come  in 
quick,  my  pretty.     My  Lord  is  waiting  for  your  uncle." 

And  he  ushered  Nance  into  a  room  cased  with  yellow 
wainscot  and  lighted  by  tall  candles,  where  two  gentle- 
men sat  at  a  table  finishing  a  bowl  of  punch.  One  of 
these  was  stout,  elderly,  and  irascible,  with  a  face  like 
a  full  moon,  well  dyed  with  liquor,  thick  tremulous 
lips,  a  short  purple  hand,  in  which  he  brandished  a 

518 


NANCE  AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON 

long  pipe,  and  an  abrupt  and  gobbling  utterance.  This 
was  my  Lord  Windermoor.  In  his  companion,  Nance 
beheld  a  younger  man,  tall,  quiet,  grave,  demurely 
dressed,  and  wearing  his  own  hair.  Her  glance  but 
lighted  on  him,  and  she  flushed,  for  in  that  second  she 
made  sure  that  she  had  twice  betrayed  herself—  betrayed 
by  the  involuntary  flash  of  her  black  eyes  her  secret 
impatience  to  behold  this  new  companion,  and,  what 
was  far  worse,  betrayed  her  disappointment  in  the 
realisation  of  her  dreams.  He,  meanwhile,  as  if  un- 
conscious, continued  to  regard  her  with  unmoved  de- 
corum. 

"  O,  a  man  of  wood,"  thought  Nance. 

"  What- what  ?  "  said  his  Lordship.    "  Who  is  this.^  " 

"If  you  please,  my  Lord,  I  am  Holdaway's  niece," 
replied  Nance,  with  a  courtesy. 

"  Should  have  been  here  himself,"  observed  his  Lord- 
ship. "Well,  you  tell  Holdaway  that  I  'm  aground; 
not  a  stiver— not  a  stiver.  I  'm  running  from  the 
beagles— going  abroad,  tell  Holdaway.  And  he  need 
look  for  no  more  wages :  glad  of  'em  myself,  if  I  could 
get  'em.  He  can  live  in  the  castle  if  he  likes,  or  go  to 
the  devil.  O,  and  here  is  Mr.  Archer;  and  I  recommend 
him  to  take  him  in— a  friend  of  mine— and  Mr.  Archer 
will  pay,  as  I  wrote.  And  I  regard  that  in  the  light  of 
a  precious  good  thing  for  Holdaway,  let  me  tell  you, 
and  a  set-off  against  the  wages." 

"  But  O,  my  Lord!  "  cried  Nance,  "we  live  upon  the 
wages,  and  what  are  we  to  do  without  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  do .?— what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  replied  Lord 
Windermoor,  with  some  exasperation.  "I  have  no 
wages.     And  there  is  Mr.  Archer.     And  if  Holdaway 

}'9 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

does  n*t  like  it,  he  can  go  to  the  devil,  and  you  with 
him!— and  you  with  him!  " 

"And  yet,  my  Lord,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "these  good 
people  will  have  as  keen  a  sense  of  loss  as  you  or  I; 
keener,  perhaps,  since  they  have  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve it." 

"Deserve  it?  "cried  the  peer.  "What?  What?  If  a 
rascally  highwayman  comes  up  to  me  with  a  confounded 
pistol,  do  you  say  that  I  've  deserved  it  ?  How  often 
am  I  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  was  cheated— that  I  was 
cheated  ?  " 

"You  are  happy  in  the  belief,"  returned  Mr.  Archer, 
gravely. 

"  Archer,  you  would  be  the  death  of  me!  "  exclaimed 
his  Lordship.  "You  know  you  're  drunk;  you  know 
it,  sir;  and  yet  you  can't  get  up  a  spark  of  animation." 

"I  have  drunk  fair,  my  Lord,"  replied  the  younger 
man;  "but  I  own  I  am  conscious  of  no  exhilaration." 

"If  you  had  as  black  a  look-out  as  me,  sir,"  cried 
the  peer,  "  you  would  be  very  glad  of  a  little  innocent 
exhilaration,  let  me  tell  you.  I  am  glad  of  it— glad  of 
it,  and  I  only  wish  1  was  drunker.  For  let  me  tell  you 
it 's  a  cruel  hard  thing  upon  a  man  of  my  time  of  life 
and  my  position,  to  be  brought  down  to  beggary  be- 
cause the  world  is  full  of  thieves  and  rascals— thieves 
and  rascals.  What  ?  For  all  I  know,  you  may  be  a 
thief  and  a  rascal  yourself;  and  I  would  fight  you  for  a 
pinch  of  snuff— a  pinch  of  snuff,"  exclaimed  his  Lordship. 

Here  Mr.  Archer  turned  to  Nance  Holdaway  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  so  full  of  sweetness,  kindness,  and  com- 
posure that,  at  one  bound,  her  dreams  returned  to  her. 

"My  good  Miss  Holdaway,"  said  he,  "if  you  are 
320 


NANCE  AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON 

willing  to  show  me  the  road,  I  am  eager  to  be  gone. 
As  for  his  Lordship  and  myself,  compose  yourself; 
there  is  no  fear;  this  is  his  Lordship's  way." 

"  What  ?  What  ?  "  cried  his  Lordship.  "  My  way  ? 
Ish  no  such  a  thing,  my  way." 

"Come,  my  Lord,"  cried  Archer;  "you  and  I  very 
thoroughly  understand  each  other;  and  let  me  suggest, 
it  is  time  that  both  of  us  were  gone.  The  mail  will 
soon  be  due.  Here,  then,  my  Lord,  I  take  my  leave 
of  you,  with  the  most  earnest  assurance  of  my  gratitude 
for  the  past,  and  a  sincere  offer  of  any  services  I  may 
be  able  to  render  in  the  future. " 

"Archer,"  exclaimed  Lord  Windermoor,  "I  love  you 
like  a  son.     Le'  's  have  another  bowl." 

"  My  Lord,  for  both  our  sakes,  you  will  excuse  me," 
replied  Mr.  Archer.  "We  both  require  caution;  we 
must  both,  for  some  while  at  least,  avoid  the  chance  of 
a  pursuit" 

"Archer,"  quoth  his  Lordship,  "  this  is  a  rank  ingratis- 
hood.  What  ?  I  'm  to  go  firing  away  in  the  dark  in 
the  cold  po'-chaise,  and  not  so  much  as  a  game  of  ecarte 
possible,  unless  I  stop  and  play  with  the  postilion— the 
postilion;  and  the  whole  country  swarming  with 
thieves  and  rascals  and  highwaymen." 

"  I  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon,"  put  in  the  landlord, 
who  now  appeared  in  the  doorway  to  announce  the 
chaise,  "  but  this  part  of  the  North  Road  is  known  for 
safety.  There  has  not  been  a  robbery,  to  call  a  robbery, 
this  five  years'  time.  Farther  south,  of  course,  it 's  nearer 
London,  and  another  story,"  he  added. 

"  Well,  then,  if  that 's  so,"  concluded  my  Lord.  "  le'  's 
have  t*  other  bowl  and  a  pack  of  cards." 

3a  I 


THE   GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

"My  Lord,  you  forget,"  said  Archer,  "I  might  still 
gain,  but  it  is  hardly  possible  for  me  to  lose." 

"  Think  I  'm  a  sharper  ?  "  inquired  the  peer.  "  Gen'le- 
man's  parole  's  all  I  ask." 

But  Mr.  Archer  was  proof  against  these  blandish- 
ments, and  said  farewell  gravely  enough  to  Lord  Win- 
dermoor,  shaking  his  hand  and  at  the  same  time  bowing 
very  low.  "You  will  never  know,"  said  he,  "the 
service  you  have  done  me."  And  with  that,  and  be- 
fore my  Lord  had  finally  taken  up  his  meaning,  he  had 
slipped  about  the  table,  touched  Nance  lightly  but  im- 
periously on  the  arm,  and  left  the  room.  In  face  of 
the  outbreak  of  his  Lordship's  lamentations,  she  made 
haste  to  follow  the  truant. 


II 

IN  WHICH  MR.   ARCHER  IS  INSTALLED 

The  chaise  had  been  driven  around  to  the  front  door; 
the  courtyard  lay  all  deserted,  and  only  lit  by  a  lantern 
set  upon  a  window-sill.  Through  this  Nance  rapidly 
led  the  way,  and  began  to  ascend  the  swellings  of  the 
moor  with  a  heart  that  somewhat  fluttered  in  her 
bosom.  She  was  not  afraid,  but  in  the  course  of  these 
last  passages  with  Lord  Windermoor  Mr.  Archer  had 
ascended  to  that  pedestal  on  which  her  fancy  waited  to 
install  him.  The  reality,  she  felt,  excelled  her  dreams, 
and  this  cold  night  walk  was  the  first  romantic  incident 
in  her  experience. 

It  was  the  rule  in  those  days  to  see  gentlemen  un- 
steady after  dinner,  yet  Nance  was  both  surprised  and 
amused  when  her  companion,  who  had  spoken  so 
soberly,  began  to  stumble  and  waver  by  her  side  with 
the  most  airy  divagations.  Sometimes  he  would  get 
so  close  to  her  that  she  must  edge  away ;  and  at  others 
lurch  clear  out  of  the  track  and  plough  among  deep 
heather.  His  courtesy  and  gravity  meanwhile  remained 
unaltered.  He  asked  her  how  far  they  had  to  go; 
whether  the  way  lay  all  upon  the  moorland,  and  when 
he  learned  they  had  to  pass  a  wood  expressed  his  plea- 
sure.    "  For,"  said  he,"  I  am  passionately  fond  of  trees. 

32^ 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

Trees  and  fair  lawns,  if  you  consider  of  it  rightly,  are  the 
ornaments  of  nature,  as  palaces  and  fine  approaches—" 
And  here  he  stumbled  into  a  patch  of  slough  and  nearly 
fell  The  girl  had  hard  work  not  to  laugh,  but  at  heart 
she  was  lost  in  admiration  for  one  who  talked  so  ele- 
gantly. 

They  had  got  to  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  Green  Dragon,  and  were  near  the  summit  of  the 
rise,  when  a  sudden  rush  of  wheels  arrested  them. 
Turning  and  looking  back,  they  saw  the  post-house, 
now  much  declined  in  brightness ;  and  speeding  away 
northward  the  two  tremulous  bright  dots  of  my  Lord 
Windermoor's  chaise-lamps.  Mr.  Archer  followed 
these  yellow  and  unsteady  stars  until  they  dwindled 
into  points  and  disappeared. 

"There  goes  my  only  friend,"  he  said.  "Death  has 
cut  off  those  that  loved  me,  and  change  of  fortune 
estranged  my  flatterers ;  and  but  for  you,  poor  bankrupt, 
my  life  is  as  lonely  as  this  moor." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  affected  both  of  them.  They 
stood  there  on  the  side  of  the  moor,  and  became  thrill- 
ingly  conscious  of  the  void  waste  of  the  night,  without 
a  feature  for  the  eye,  and  except  for  the  fainting  whisper 
of  the  carriage-wheels  without  a  murmur  for  the  ear. 
And  instantly,  like  a  mockery,  there  broke  out,  very 
far  away,  but  clear  and  jolly,  the  note  of  the  mail-guard's 
horn.  "Over  the  hills,"  was  his  air.  It  rose  to  the 
two  watchers  on  the  moor  with  the  most  cheerful  sen- 
timent of  human  company  and  travel,  and  at  the  same 
time  in  and  around  the  Green  Dragon  it  woke  up  a 
great  bustle  of  lights  running  to  and  fro  and  clattering 
hoofs.     Presently  after,  out  of  the  darkness  to  south- 


IN   WHICH   MR.  ARCHER  IS  INSTALLED 

ward,  the  mail  drew  near  with  a  growing  rumble.  Its 
lamps  were  very  large  and  bright,  and  threw  their 
radiance  forward  in  overlapping  cones;  the  four  can- 
tering horses  swarmed  and  steamed;  the  body  of  the 
coach  followed  like  a  great  shadow;  and  this  lit  picture 
slid  with  a  sort  of  ineffectual  swiftness  over  the  black 
field  of  night,  and  was  eclipsed  by  the  buildings  of 
the  Green  Dragon. 

Mr.  Archer  turned  abruptly  and  resumed  his  former 
walk;  only  that  he  was  now  more  steady,  kept  better 
alongside  his  young  conductor,  and  had  fallen  into  a 
silence  broken  by  sighs.  Nance  waxed  very  pitiful 
over  his  fate,  contrasting  an  imaginary  past  of  courts 
and  great  society,  and  perhaps  the  King  himself,  with 
the  tumbledown  ruin  in  a  wood  to  which  she  was  now 
conducting  him. 

"You  must  try,  sir,  to  keep  your  spirits  up,"  said 
she.  "  To  be  sure,  this  is  a  great  change  for  one  like 
you ;  but  who  knows  the  future  ?  " 

Mr.  Archer  turned  towards  her  in  the  darkness,  and 
she  could  clearly  perceive  that  he  smiled  upon  her  very 
kindly.  "  There  spoke  a  sweet  nature,"  said  he,  "  and 
I  must  thank  you  for  these  words.  But  I  would  not 
have  you  fancy  that  I  regret  the  past  for  any  happi- 
ness found  in  it,  or  that  I  fear  the  simplicity  and  hard- 
ship of  the  country.  1  am  a  man  that  has  been  much 
tossed  about  in  life;  now  up,  now  down;  and  do  you 
think  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  support  what  you  sup- 
port—you who  are  kind,  and  therefore  know  how  to 
feel  pain;  who  are  beautiful,  and  therefore  hope;  who 
are  young,  and  therefore  (or  am  I  the  more  mistaken  ?) 
discontented  ?  " 

335 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

"Nay,  sir,  not  that  at  least,"  said  Nance;  "not  dis- 
contented. If  I  were  to  be  discontented,  how  should 
I  look  those  that  have  real  sorrows  in  the  face  ?  I  have 
faults  enough,  but  not  that  fault;  and  I  have  my  merits 
too,  for  I  have  a  good  opinion  of  myself.  But  for 
beauty,  I  am  not  so  simple  but  that  I  can  tell  a  banter 
from  a  compliment." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "  I  had  half  forgotten; 
grief  is  selfish,  and  I  was  thinking  of  myself  and  not 
of  you,  or  I  had  never  blurted  out  so  bold  a  piece  of 
praise.  'T  is  the  best  proof  of  my  sincerity.  But  come, 
now,  I  would  lay  a  wager  you  are  no  coward  ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  am  not  more  afraid  than  another," 
said  Nance.     "  None  of  my  blood  are  given  to  fear.'* 

"  And  you  are  honest  ?  "  he  returned. 

"  I  will  answer  for  that,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  then,  to  be  brave,  to  be  honest,  to  be  kind, 
and  to  be  contented,  since  you  say  you  are  so— is  not 
that  to  fill  up  a  great  part  of  virtue  ?  " 

"  I  fear  you  are  but  a  flatterer,"  said  Nance,  but  she 
did  not  say  it  clearly,  for  what  with  bewilderment  and 
satisfaction,  her  heart  was  quite  oppressed. 

There  could  be  no  harm,  certainly,  in  these  grave 
compliments;  but  yet  they  charmed  and  frightened  her, 
and  to  find  favour,  for  reasons  however  obscure,  in  the 
eyes  of  this  elegant,  serious,  and  most  unfortunate 
young  gentleman,  was  a  giddy  elevation,  was  almost 
an  apotheosis,  for  a  country  maid. 

But  she  was  to  be  no  more  exercised ;  for  Mr.  Archer, 
disclaiming  any  thought  of  flattery,  turned  off  to  other 
subjects,  and  held  her  all  through  the  wood  in  conver- 
sation, addressing  her  with  an  air  of  perfect  sincerity, 

326 


IN   WHICH   MR.  ARCHER  IS   INSTALLED 

and  listening  to  her  answers  with  every  mark  of  interest 
Had  open  flattery  continued,  Nance  would  have  soon 
found  refuge  in  good  sense;  but  the  more  subtle  lure 
she  could  not  suspect,  much  less  avoid.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  taken  part  in  a  conversation 
illuminated  by  any  ideas.  All  was  then  true  that  she 
had  heard  and  dreamed  of  gentlemen ;  they  were  a  race 
apart,  like  deities  knowing  good  and  evil.  And  then 
there  burst  upon  her  soul  a  divine  thought,  hope's 
glorious  sunrise:  since  she  could  understand,  since  it 
seemed  that  she  too,  even  she,  could  interest  this  sor- 
rowful Apollo,  might  she  not  learn  ?  Or  was  she  not 
learning.?  Would  not  her  soul  awake  and  put  forth 
wings  ?  Was  she  not,  in  fact,  an  enchanted  princess, 
waiting  but  a  touch  to  become  royal  ?  She  saw  her- 
self transformed,  radiantly  attired,  but  in  the  most  ex- 
quisite taste:  her  face  grown  longer  and  more  refined; 
her  tint  etherealised ;  and  she  heard  herself  with  de- 
lighted wonder  talking  like  a  book. 

Meanwhile  they  had  arrived  at  where  the  track  comes 
out  above  the  river  dell,  and  saw  in  front  of  them  the 
castle,  faintly  shadowed  on  the  night,  covering  with 
its  broken  battlements  a  bold  projection  of  the  bank, 
and  showing  at  the  extreme  end,  where  were  the  habi- 
table tower  and  wing,  some  crevices  of  candle-light. 
Hence  she  called  loudly  upon  her  uncle,  and  he  was 
seen  to  issue,  lantern  in  hand,  from  the  tower  door, 
and,  where  the  ruins  did  not  intervene,  to  pick  his  way 
over  the  swarded  courtyard,  avoiding  treacherous  cellars 
and  winding  among  blocks  of  fallen  masonry.  The 
arch  of  the  great  gate  was  still  entire,  flanked  by  two 
tottering  bastions,  and  it  was  here  that  Jonathan  met 

327 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

them,  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  bridge,  bent  some- 
what forward,  and  blinking  at  them  through  the  glow 
of  his  own  lantern.  Mr.  Archer  greeted  him  with  civil- 
ity ;  but  the  old  man  was  in  no  humour  of  compliance. 
He  guided  the  new-comer  across  the  courtyard,  looking 
sharply  and  quickly  in  his  face,  and  grumbling  all  the 
time  about  the  cold,  and  the  discomfort  and  dilapida- 
tion of  the  castle. 

He  was  sure  he  hoped  that  Mr.  Archer  would  like  it; 
but  in  truth  he  could  not  think  what  brought  him  there. 
Doubtless  he  had  a  good  reason— this  with  a  look  of 
cunning  scrutiny— but,  indeed,  the  place  was  quite  unfit 
for  any  person  of  repute;  he  himself  was  eaten  up  with 
the  rheumatics.  It  was  the  most  rheumaticky  place  in 
England,  and,  some  fine  day,  the  whole  habitable  part 
(to  call  it  habitable)  would  fetch  away  bodily  and  go 
down  the  slope  into  the  river.  He  had  seen  the  cracks 
widening;  there  was  a  plaguy  issue  in  the  bank  below; 
he  thought  a  spring  was  mining  it;  it  might  be  to-mor- 
row, it  might  be  next  day;  but  they  were  all  sure  of  a 
come-down  sooner  or  later.  "  And  that  is  a  poor  death, " 
said  he,  "  for  any  one,  let  alone  a  gentleman,  to  have  a 
whole  old  ruin  dumped  upon  his  belly.  Have  a  care  to 
your  left  there :  these  cellar  vaults  have  all  broke  down, 
and  the  grass  and  the  hemlock  hide  'em.  Well,  sir, 
here  is  welcome  to  you,  such  as  it  is,  and  wishing  you 
well  away." 

And  with  that  Jonathan  ushered  his  guest  through 
the  tower  door,  and  down  three  steps  on  the  left  hand 
into  the  kitchen  or  common  room  of  the  castle.  It 
was  a  huge,  low  room,  as  large  as  a  meadow,  occu- 
pying the  whole  width  of  the  habitable  wing,  with  six 

528 


IN   WHICH   MR.  ARCHER   IS   INSTALLED 

barred  windows  looking  on  the  court,  and  two  into  the 
river  valley.  A  dresser,  a  table,  and  a  few  chairs  stood 
dotted  here  and  there  upon  the  uneven  flags.  Under 
the  great  chimney  a  good  fire  burned  in  an  iron  fire- 
basket;  a  high  old  settee,  rudely  carved  with  figures 
and  Gothic  lettering,  flanked  it  on  either  side;  there  were 
a  hinge  table  and  a  stone  bench  in  the  chimney  corner, 
and  above  the  arch  hung  guns,  axes,  lanterns,  and  great 
sheaves  of  rusty  keys. 

Jonathan  looked  about  him,  holding  up  the  lantern, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  pitying  grimace. 
"  Here  it  is,"  he  said.  "  See  the  damp  on  the  floor,  look 
at  the  moss ;  where  there  's  moss  you  may  be  sure  that 
it 's  rheumaticky.  Try  and  get  near  that  fire  for  to 
warm  yourself;  it  '11  blow  the  coat  off  your  back.  And 
with  a  young  gentleman  with  a  face  like  yours,  as  pale 
as  a  tallow  candle,  I  'd  be  afeard  of  a  churchyard  cough 
and  a  galloping  decline,"  said  Jonathan,  naming  the 
maladies  with  gloomy  gusto,  **  or  the  cold  might  strike 
and  turn  your  blood,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Archer  fairly  laughed.  "My  good  Mr.  Holda- 
way,"  said  he,  "I  was  born  with  that  same  tallow- 
candle  face,  and  the  only  fear  that  you  inspire  me  with 
is  the  fear  that  I  intrude  unwelcomely  upon  your  private 
hours.  But  I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  I  am  very 
little  troublesome,  and  I  am  inclined  to  hope  that  the 
terms  which  I  can  offer  may  still  pay  you  the  derange- 
ment." 

"  Yes,  the  terms,"  said  Jonathan,  "  I  was  thinking  of 
that.  As  you  say,  they  are  very  small,"  and  he  shook 
his  head. 

*'  Unhappily,  I  can  afford  no  more,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 
329 


THE   GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

"But  this  we  have  arranged  already,"  he  added  with  a 
certain  stiffness;  "and  as  I  am  aware  that  Miss  Holda- 
way  has  matter  to  communicate,  I  will,  if  you  permit, 
-etire  at  once.  To-night  I  must  bivouac;  to-morrow 
my  trunk  is  to  follow  from  the  Dragon.  So,  if  you 
will  show  me  to  my  room  I  shall  wish  you  a  good 
slumber  and  a  better  awakening." 

Jonathan  silently  gave  the  lantern  to  Nance,  and  she, 
turning  and  courtesying  in  the  doorway,  proceeded  to 
conduct  their  guest  up  the  broad  winding  staircase  of 
the  tower.     He  followed  with  a  very  brooding  face. 

"  Alas!  "  cried  Nance,  as  she  entered  the  room,  "your 
fire  is  black  out,"  and  setting  down  the  lantern  she 
clapped  upon  her  knees  before  the  chimney  and  began 
to  rearrange  the  charred  and  still  smouldering  remains. 
Mr.  Archer  looked  about  the  gaunt  apartment  with  a  sort 
of  shudder.  The  great  height,  the  bare  stone,  the  shat- 
tered windows,  the  aspect  of  the  uncurtained  bed,  with 
one  of  its  four  fluted  columns  broken  short,  all  struck 
a  chill  upon  his  fancy.  From  this  dismal  survey  his 
eyes  turned  to  Nance  crouching  before  the  fire,  the 
candle  in  one  hand  and  artfully  puffing  at  the  embers ; 
the  flames  as  they-  broke  forth  played  upon  the  soft 
outline  of  her  cheek— she  was  alive  and  young,  coloured 
with  the  bright  hues  of  life,  and  a  woman.  He  looked 
upon  her,  softening;  and  then  sat  down  and  continued 
to  admire  the  picture. 

"There,  sir,"  said  she,  getting  upon  her  feet,  "your 
fire  is  doing  bravely  now.     Good-night." 

He  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Come,"  said  he, 
"  you  are  my  only  friend  in  these  parts,  and  you  must 
shake  hands." 

330 


IN   WHICH   MR.  ARCHER  IS   INSTALLED 

She  brushed  her  hand  upon  her  skirt,  and  offered  it, 
blushing. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

And  then,  when  he  was  alone,  he  opened  one  of  the 
windows,  and  stared  down  into  the  dark  valley.  A 
gentle  wimpling  of  the  river  among  stones  ascended 
to  his  ear;  the  trees  upon  the  other  bank  stood  very 
black  against  the  sky ;  farther  away  an  owl  was  hoot- 
ing. It  was  dreary  and  cold,  and  as  he  turned  back  to 
the  hearth  and  the  fine  glow  of  fire,  "  Heavens!  "  said 
he  to  himself,  "what  an  unfortunate  destiny  is  mine!'" 

He  went  to  bed,  but  sleep  only  visited  his  pillow  in 
uneasy  snatches.  Outbreaks  of  loud  speech  came  up  the 
staircase;  he  heard  the  old  stones  of  the  castle  crack  in 
the  frosty  night  with  sharp  reverberations,  and  the  bed 
complained  under  his  tossings.  Lastly,  far  on  into  the 
morning,  he  awakened  from  a  doze  to  hear,  very  far 
off,  in  the  extreme  and  breathless  quiet,  a  wailing  flour- 
ish on  the  horn.  The  down  mail  was  drawing  near  to 
the  Green  Dragon.  He  sat  up  in  bed;  the  sound  was 
tragical  by  distance,  and  the  modulation  appealed  to 
his  ear  like  human  speech.  It  seemed  to  call  upon  him 
with  a  dreary  insistence— to  call  him  far  away,  to 
address  him  personally,  and  to  have  a  meaning  that  he 
failed  to  seize.  It  was  thus,  at  least,  in  this  nodding 
castle,  in  a  cold,  miry  woodland,  and  so  far  from  men 
and  society,  that  the  traffic  on  the  Great  North  Road 
spoke  to  him  in  the  intervals  of  slumber. 


331 


Ill 

JONATHAN  HOLDAWAY 

Nance  descended  the  tower-stair,  pausing  at  every 
step.  She  was  in  no  hurry  to  confront  her  uncle  with 
bad  news,  and  she  must  dwell  a  little  longer  on  the 
rich  note  of  Mr.  Archer's  voice,  the  charm  of  his  kind 
words,  and  the  beauty  of  his  manner  and  person.  But, 
once  at  the  stair-foot,  she  threw  aside  the  spell  and 
recovered  her  sensible  and  workaday  self. 

Jonathan  was  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  settle,  a 
mug  of  ale  beside  him,  in  the  attitude  of  one  prepared 
for  trouble;  but  he  did  not  speak,  and  suffered  her  to 
fetch  her  supper  and  eat  of  it,  with  a  very  excellent 
appetite,  in  silence.  When  she  had  done,  she,  too, 
drew  a  tankard  of  home-brewed,  and  came  and  planted 
herself  in  front  of  him  upon  the  settle. 

'■  Well  ?  "  said  Jonathan. 

*'  My  Lord  has  run  away,"  said  Nance. 

"  What  ^  "  cried  the  old  man. 

"Abroad,"  she  continued.  "Run  away  from  credi- 
tors. He  said  he  had  not  a  stiver,  but  he  was  drunk 
enough.  He  said  you  might  live  on  in  the  castle,  and 
Mr.  Archer  would  pay  you;  but  you  was  to  look  for  no 
more  wages,  since  he  would  be  glad  of  them  himself." 

332 


JONATHAN   HOLDAWAY 

Jonathan's  face  contracted;  the  flush  of  a  black, 
bilious  anger  mounted  to  the  roots  of  his  hair;  he  gave 
an  inarticulate  cry,  leapt  upon  his  feet,  and  began  rapidly 
pacing  the  stone  floor.  At  first  he  kept  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back  in  a  tight  knot;  then  he  began  to  gesticu- 
late as  he  turned. 

"This  man— this  Lord,"  he  shouted,  "who  is  he? 
He  was  born  with  a  gold  spoon  in  his  mouth,  and  I 
with  a  dirty  straw.  He  rolled  in  his  coach  when  he 
was  a  baby.  I  have  dug  and  toiled  and  laboured  since 
I  was  that  high— that  high."  And  he  shouted  again. 
"  1  'm  bent  and  broke,  and  full  of  pains.  D'  ye  think  I 
don't  know  the  taste  of  sweat  ?  Many 's  the  gallon  I  've 
drunk  of  it— ay,  in  the  midwinter,  toiling  like  a  slave. 
All  through,  what  has  my  life  been?  Bend,  bend, 
bend  my  old  creaking  back  till  it  would  ache  like  break- 
ing; wade  about  in  the  foul  mire,  never  a  dry  stitch; 
empty  belly,  sore  hands,  hat  off  to  my  Lord  Redface; 
kicks  and  ha'pence;  and  now,  here,  at  the  hind  end, 
when  I  'm  worn  to  my  poor  bones,  a  kick  and  done 
with  it."  He  walked  a  little  while  in  silence,  and  then, 
extending  his  hand,  "Now,  you  Nance  Holdaway," 
said  he,  "  you  come  of  my  blood,  and  you  're  a  good 
girl.  When  that  man  was  a  boy,  I  used  to  carry  his 
gun  for  him.  I  carried  the  gun  all  day  on  my  two  feet, 
and  many  a  stitch  I  had,  and  chewed  a  bullet  for.  He 
rode  upon  a  horse,  with  feathers  in  his  hat,  but  it  was 
him  that  had  the  shots  and  took  the  game  home.  Did 
I  complain  ?  Not  I.  I  knew  my  station.  What  did  I 
ask,  but  just  the  chance  to  live  and  die  honest  ?  Nance 
Holdaway,  don't  let  them  deny  it  to  me— don't  let  them 
do  it.     I  've  been  poor  as  Job,  and  honest  as  the  day, 

}}} 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

but  now,  my  girl,  you  mark  these  words  of  mine,  I  'm 
getting  tired  of  it." 

"  I  would  n't  say  such  words,  at  least,"  said  Nance. 

"  You  would  n't  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  grimly.  "  Well, 
and  did  I  when  I  was  your  age  ?  Wait  till  your  back  's 
broke,  and  your  hands  tremble,  and  your  eyes  fail,  and 
you  *re  weary  of  the  battle,  and  ask  no  more  but  to  lie 
down  in  your  bed  and  give  the  ghost  up  like  an  honest 
man;  and  then  let  there  up  and  come  some  insolent, 
ungodly  fellow— ah!  if  I  had  him  in  these  hands! 
*  Where  's  my  money  that  you  gambled  ? '  I  should 
say.  *  Where  's  my  money  that  you  drank  and 
diced?  Thief!'  is  what  I  would  say;  thief  I '*  he 
roared,   "thief!  " 

"  Mr.  Archer  will  hear  you,  if  you  don't  take  care," 
said  Nance;  "and  I  would  be  ashamed,  for  one,  that  he 
should  hear  a  brave,  old,  honest,  hard-working  man 
like  Jonathan  Holdaway  talk  nonsense  like  a  boy." 

"  D'  ye  think  I  mind  for  Mr.  Archer  ?  "  he  cried  shrilly, 
with  a  clack  of  laughter;  and  then  he  came  close  up  to 
her,  stooped  down  with  his  two  palms  upon  his  knees, 
and  looked  her  in  the  eyes,  with  a  strange  hard  expres- 
sion, something  like  a  smile.  "  Do  I  mind  for  God, 
my  girl  ?  "  he  said,  "  that 's  what  it 's  come  to  be  now, 
do  I  mind  for  God  ?  " 

"Uncle  Jonathan,"  she  said,  getting  up  and  taking 
him  by  the  arm ;  "  you  sit  down  again,  where  you  were 
sitting.  There,  sit  still;  I  '11  have  no  more  of  this; 
you  11  do  yourself  a  mischief.  Come,  take  a  drink  of 
this  good  ale,  and  I  '11  warm  a  tankard  for  you.  La, 
well;  we  '11  pull  through,  you  '11  see.  I  'm  young,  as 
you  say,  and  it 's  my  turn  to  carry  the  bundle;  and  don't 

334 


JONATHAN  HOLDAWAY 

you  worry  your  bile,  or  we  '11  have  sickness,  too,  as 
well  as  sorrow." 

"  D'  ye  think  that  1  'd  forgotten  you? "  said  Jonathan, 
with  something  like  a  groan;  and  thereupon  his  teeth 
clicked  to,  and  he  sat  silent  with  the  tankard  in  his 
hand  and  staring  straight  before  him. 

"  Why,"  says  Nance,  setting  on  the  ale  to  mull,"  men 
are  always  children,  they  say,  however  old ;  and  if  ever 
I  heard  a  thing  like  this,  to  set  to  and  make  yourself 
sick,  just  when  the  money  's  failing!  Keep  a  good 
heart  up ;  you  have  n't  kept  a  good  heart  these  seventy 
years,  nigh  hand,  to  break  down  about  a  pound  or  two. 
Here  's  thir  Mr.  Archer  come  to  lodge,  that  you  disliked 
so  much.  Well,  now  you  see  it  was  a  clear  Providence. 
Come,  let 's  think  upon  our  mercies.  And  here  is  the 
ale  mulling  lovely;  smell  of  it;  I  '11  take  a  drop  myself, 
it  smells  so  sweet.  And,  Uncle  Jonathan,  you  let  me 
say  one  word.  You  've  lost  more  than  money  before 
now;  you  lost  my  aunt,  and  bore  it  like  a  man.  Bear 
this." 

His  face  once  more  contracted;  his  fist  doubled, 
and  shot  forth  into  the  air,  and  trembled.  "  Let  them 
look  out!  "  he  shouted.  "Here,  I  warn  all  men;  I  've 
done  with  this  foul  kennel  of  knaves.  Let  them  look 
out." 

"  Hush,  hush!  for  pity's  sake,"  cried  Nance. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  dropped  his  face  into  his 
hands,  and  broke  out  with  a  great  hiccoughing  dry  sob 
that  was  horrible  to  hear.  "O,"  he  cried,  "my  God, 
if  my  son  had  n't  left  me,  if  my  Dick  was  here! "  and 
the  sobs  shook  him;  Nance  sitting  still  and  watching 
him,  with  distress.     "  O,  if  he  were  here  to  help  his 

335 


THE   GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

father! "  he  went  on  again.  "  If  I  had  a  son  like  other 
fathers,  he  would  save  me  now,  when  all  is  breaking 
down;  O,  he  would  save  me!  Ay,  but  where  is  he  ? 
Raking  taverns,  a  thief  perhaps.  My  curse  be  on  him !  " 
he  added,  rising  again  into  wrath. 

"Hush!  "  cried  Nance,  springing  to  her  feet:  "your 
boy,  your  dead  wife's  boy— Aunt  Susan's  baby,  that 
she  loved— would  you  curse  him?  0,  God  for- 
bid! " 

The  energy  of  her  address  surprised  him  from  his 
mood.  He  looked  upon  her,  tearless  and  confused. 
"Let  me  go  to  my  bed,"  he  said  at  last,  and  he  rose 
and,  shaking  as  with  ague,  but  quite  silent,  lighted  his 
candle,  and  left  the  kitchen. 

Poor  Nance!  the  pleasant  current  of  her  dreams  was 
all  diverted.  She  beheld  a  golden  city,  where  she 
aspired  to  dwell;  she  had  spoken  with  a  deity,  and  had 
told  herself  that  she  might  rise  to  be  his  equal;  and 
now  the  earthly  ligaments  that  bound  her  down  had 
been  straitened.  She  was  like  a  tree  looking  sky- 
ward, her  roots  were  in  the  ground.  It  seemed  to  her 
a  thing  so  coarse,  so  rustic,  to  be  thus  concerned  about 
a  loss  in  money;  when  Mr.  Archer,  fallen  from  the 
sky-level  of  counts  and  nobles,  faced  his  changed  des- 
tiny with  so  immovable  a  courage.  To  weary  of  hon- 
esty ;  that,  at  least,  no  one  could  do,  but  even  to  name 
it  was  already  a  disgrace;  and  she  beheld  in  fancy  her 
uncle,  and  the  young  lad,  all  laced  and  feathered,  hand 
upon  hip,  bestriding  his  small  horse.  The  opposition 
seemed  to  perpetuate  itself  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion; one  side  still  doomed  to  the  clumsy  and  servile, 
the  other  born  to  beauty. 


JONATHAN  HOLDAWAY 

She  thought  of  the  golden  zones  in  which  gentlemen 
were  bred,  and  figured  with  so  excellent  a  grace;  zones 
in  which  wisdom  and  smooth  words,  white  linen  and 
slim  hands,  were  the  mark  of  the  desired  inhabitants; 
where  low  temptations  were  unknown,  and  honesty  no 
virtue,  but  a  thing  as  natural  as  breathing. 


337 


IV 

MINGLING  THREADS 

It  was  nearly  seven  before  Mr.  Archer  left  his  apart- 
ment. On  the  landing  he  found  another  door  beside 
his  own,  opening  on  a  roofless  corridor,  and  presently 
he  was  walking  on  the  top  of  the  ruins.  On  one  hand 
he  could  look  down  a  good  depth  into  the  green  court- 
yard ;  on  the  other,  his  eye  roved  along  the  downward 
course  of  the  river,  the  wet  woods  all  smoking,  the 
shadows  long  and  blue,  the  mists  golden  and  rosy  in  the 
sun,  here  and  there  the  water  flashing  across  an  obsta- 
cle. His  heart  expanded  and  softened  to  a  grateful 
melancholy,  and  with  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  distance, 
and  no  thought  of  present  danger,  he  continued  to  stroll 
along  the  elevated  and  treacherous  promenade. 

A  terror-stricken  cry  rose  to  him  from  the  courtyard. 
He  looked  down,  and  saw  in  a  glimpse  Nance  standing 
below  with  hands  clasped  in  horror  and  his  own  foot 
trembling  on  the  margin  of  a  gulf.  He  recoiled  and 
leant  against  a  pillar,  quaking  from  head  to  foot,  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands;  and  Nance  had  time 
to  run  round  by  the  stair  and  rejoin  him  where  he  stood 
before  he  had  changed  a  line  of  his  position. 

"  Ah !  "  he  cried,  and  clutched  her  wrist;  "  don't  leave 
me.    The  place  rocks;  I  have  no  head  for  altitudes." 

b8 


MINGLING   THREADS 

"Sit  down  against  that  pillar,"  said  Nance.  **  Don't 
you  be  afraid;  I  won't  leave  you;  and  don't  look  up  or 
down:  look  straight  at  me.     How  white  you  are!" 

"The  gulf,"  he  said,  and  closed  his  eyes  again  and 
shuddered. 

'*  Why,"  said  Nance,  *' what  a  poor  climber  you  must 
be !  That  was  where  my  cousin  Dick  used  to  get  out 
of  the  castle  after  Uncle  Jonathan  had  shut  the  gate. 
I  've  been  down  there  myself  with  him  helping  me.  I 
would  n't  try  with  you,"  she  said,  and  laughed  merrily. 

The  sound  of  her  laughter  was  sincere  and  musical, 
and  perhaps  its  beauty  barbed  the  offence  to  Mr.  Archer. 
The  blood  came  into  his  face  with  a  quick  jet,  and  then 
left  it  paler  than  before.  **  It  is  a  physical  weakness," 
he  said  harshly,  "  and  very  droll,  no  doubt,  but  one  that 
I  can  conquer  on  necessity.  See,  I  am  still  shaking. 
Well,  I  advance  to  the  battlements  and  look  down. 
Show  me  your  cousin's  path." 

"  He  would  go  sure-foot  along  that  little  ledge,"  said 
Nance,  pointing  as  she  spoke;  "then  out  through  the 
breach  and  down  by  yonder  buttress.  It  is  easier  com- 
ing back,  of  course,  because  you  see  where  you  are 
going.  From  the  buttress-foot  a  sheep-walk  goes  along 
the  scarp— see,  you  can  follow  it  from  here  in  the  dry 
grass.  And  now,  sir,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of 
womanly  pity,  "I  would  come  away  from  here  if  I 
were  you,  for  indeed  you  are  not  fit." 

Sure  enough,  Mr.  Archer's  pallor  and  agitation  had 
continued  to  increase;  his  cheeks  were  deathly,  his 
clenched  fingers  trembled  pitifully.  "  The  weakness  is 
physical,"  he  sighed,  and  had  nearly  fallen.  Nance 
led  him  from  the  spot,  and  he  was  no  sooner  back  in 

539 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

the  tower-Stair,  than  he  fell  heavily  against  the  wall 
and  put  his  arm  across  his  eyes.  A  cup  of  brandy  had 
to  be  brought  him  before  he  could  descend  to  breakfast; 
and  the  perfection  of  Nance's  dream  was  for  the  first 
time  troubled. 

Jonathan  was  waiting  for  them  at  table,  with  yellow, 
blood-shot  eyes  and  a  peculiar  dusky  complexion.  He 
hardly  waited  till  they  found  their  seats,  before,  raising 
one  hand,  and  stooping  with  his  mouth  above  his  plate, 
he  put  up  a  prayer  for  a  blessing  on  the  food  and  a 
spirit  of  gratitude  in  the  eaters,  and  thereupon,  and 
without  more  civility,  fell  to.  But  it  was  notable  that 
he  was  no  less  speedily  satisfied  than  he  had  been  greedy 
to  begin.  He  pushed  his  plate  away  and  drummed  upon 
the  table. 

"These  are  silly  prayers,"  said  he,  "that  they  teach 
us.  Eat  and  be  thankful,  that  's  no  such  wonder. 
Speak  to  me  of  starving— there  's  the  touch.  You  're  a 
man,  they  tell  me,  Mr.  Archer,  that  has  met  with  some 
reverses  ?  " 

"  I  have  met  with  many,"  replied  Mr.  Archer. 

"Ha!"  said  Jonathan,  "none  reckons  but  the  last. 
Now,  see;  I  tried  to  make  this  girl  here  understand 
me." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Nance,  "  what  should  Mr.  Archer  care 
for  your  concerns  ?  He  hath  troubles  of  his  own,  and 
came  to  be  at  peace,  1  think." 

"  I  tried  to  make  her  understand  me,"  repeated  Jona- 
than, doggedly;  "  and  now  I  '11  try  you.  Do  you  think 
this  world  is  fair  }  " 

"  Fair  and  false!  "  quoth  Mr.  Archer. 

The  old  man  laughed  immoderately.  "Good,"  said 
340 


MINGLING  THREADS 

he ;  "  very  good.  But  what  I  mean  is  this :  do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  get  up  early  and  go  to  bed  late,  and  never 
take  so  much  as  a  holiday  but  four;  and  one  of  these 
your  own  marriage  day,  and  the  other  three  the  funerals 
of  folk  you  loved,  and  all  that,  to  have  a  quiet  old  age 
in  shelter,  and  bread  for  your  old  belly,  and  a  bed  to 
lay  your  crazy  bones  upon,  with  a  clear  conscience  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  with  an  inclination  of  his  head, 
"you  portray  a  very  brave  existence." 

"  Well,"  continued  Jonathan,  "  and  in  the  end  thieves 
deceive  you,  thieves  rob  and  rook  you,  thieves  turn  you 
out  in  your  grey  old  age  and  send  you  begging.  What 
have  you  got  for  all  your  honesty?  A  fine  return !  You 
that  might  have  stole  scores  of  pounds,  there  you  are 
out  in  the  rain  with  your  rheumatics !  " 

Mr.  Archer  had  forgotten  to  eat;  with  his  hand  upon 
his  chin  he  was  studying  the  old  man's  countenance. 
"  And  you  conclude  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Conclude!"  cried  Jonathan.  "I  conclude  I  '11  be 
upsides  with  them." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  other,  "  we  are  all  tempted  to  revenge." 

"  You  have  lost  money  ?  "  asked  Jonathan. 

"A  great  estate,"  said  Archer, quietly. 

"  See  now!  "  says  Jonathan,  "  and  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  sometimes  think  that  every  one  has  had  his 
share  of  it  but  me,"  was  the  reply.  **  All  England  hath 
paid  his  taxes  with  my  patrimony:  I  was  a  sheep  that 
left  my  wool  on  every  brier." 

"  And  you  sit  down  under  that  ?  "  cried  the  old  man. 
*'  Come  now,  Mr.  Archer,  you  and  me  belong  to  differ- 
ent stations  ?  and  I  know  mine— no  man  better— but 
since  we  have  both  been  rooked,  and  are  both  sore 

34» 


THE  GREAT  NORTH    ROAD 

with  it,  why,  here  's  my  hand  with  a  very  good  heart, 
and  I  ask  for  yours,  and  no  offence,  I  hope." 

"There  is  surely  no  offence,  my  friend,"  returned 
Mr.  Archer,  as  they  shook  hands  across  the  table;  "  for, 
believe  me,  my  sympathies  are  quite  acquired  to  you. 
This  life  is  an  arena  where  we  fight  with  beasts ;  and, 
indeed,"  he  added,  sighing,  "I  sometimes  marvel  why 
we  go  down  to  it  unarmed." 

In  the  meanwhile,  a  creaking  of  ungreased  axles  had 
been  heard  descending  through  the  wood ;  and  presently 
after  the  door  opened,  and  the  tall  hostler  entered  the 
kitchen  carrying  one  end  of  Mr.  Archer's  trunks.  The 
other  was  carried  by  an  aged  beggarman  of  that  district, 
known  and  welcome  for  some  twenty  miles  about  under 
the  name  of  Old  Cumberland.  Each  was  soon  perched 
upon  a  settle,  with  a  cup  of  ale;  and  the  hostler,  who 
valued  himself  upon  his  affability,  began  to  entertain 
the  company,  still  with  half  an  eye  on  Nance,  to 
whom  in  gallant  terms  he  expressly  dedicated  every 
sip  of  ale.  First  he  told  of  the  trouble  they  had  to  get 
his  Lordship  started  in  the  chaise;  and  how  he  had 
dropped  a  rouleau  of  gold  on  the  threshold,  and  the 
passage  and  door-step  had  been  strewn  with  guinea- 
pieces.  At  this  old  Jonathan  looked  at  Mr.  Archer. 
Next  the  visitor  turned  to  news  of  a  more  thrilling 
character:  how  the  down  mail  had  been  stopped  again 
near  Grantham  by  three  men  on  horseback— a  white 
and  two  bays;  how  they  had  handkerchiefs  on  their 
faces;  how  Tom  the  guard's  blunderbuss  missed  fire, 
but  he  swore  he  had  winged  one  of  them  with  a  pistol ; 
and  how  they  had  got  clean  away  with  seventy  pounds 
in  money,  some  valuable  papers,  and  a  watch  or  two- 

342 


MINGLING   THREADS 

"  Brave,  brave !  "  cried  Jonathan,  in  ecstasy.  "  Seventy 
pounds !     O,  it 's  brave !  " 

"Well,  I  don't  see  the  great  bravery,"  observed  the 
hostler,  misapprehending  him.  "Three  men,  and 
you  may  call  that  three  to  one.  I  '11  call  it  brave 
when  some  one  stops  the  mail  single-handed;  that  's 
a  risk." 

"  And  why  should  they  hesitate } "  inquired  Mr. 
Archer.  "The  poor  souls  who  are  fallen  to  such  a 
way  of  life,  pray,  what  have  they  to  lose  ?  If  they  get 
the  money,  well;  but  if  a  ball  should  put  them  from 
their  troubles,  why,  so  better." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  hostler,  "I  believe  you  '11  find 
they  won't  agree  with  you.  They  count  on  a  good 
fling,  you  see;  or  who  would  risk  it .?— And  here  's  my 
best  respects  to  you.  Miss  Nance." 

"And  I  forgot  the  part  of  cowardice,"  resumed  Mr. 
Archer.     "  All  men  fear." 

"O,  surely  not!  "  cried  Nance. 

"All  men,"  reiterated  Mr.  Archer. 

"  Ay,  that 's  a  true  word,"  observed  Old  Cumberland, 
"and  a  thief,  anyway,  for  it 's  a  coward's  trade." 

"But  these  fellows,  now,"  said  Jonathan,  with  a 
curious,  appealing  manner—"  these  fellows  with  their 
seventy  pounds!  Perhaps,  Mr.  Archer,  they  were  no 
true  thieves  after  all,  but  just  people  who  had  been 
robbed  and  tried  to  get  their  own  again.  What  was 
that  you  said,  about  all  England  and  the  taxes  ?  One 
takes,  another  gives ;  why,  that  's  almost  fair.  If  I  've 
been  rooked  and  robbed,  and  the  coat  taken  off  my 
back,  I  call  it  almost  fair  to  take  another's." 

"Ask  Old  Cumberland,"  observed  the  hostler,  "you 
343 


THE   GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

ask  Old  Cumberland,  Miss  Nance!"  and  he  bestowed 
a  wink  upon  his  favoured  fair  one. 

"  Why  that  ?  "  asked  Jonathan. 

"He  had  his  coat  taken,  ay,  and  his  shirt  too,"  re- 
turned the  hostler. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  cried  Jonathan,  eagerly.  "  Was  you 
robbed  too  ?  " 

"  That  was  I,"  replied  Cumberland,  "  with  a  warrant! 
I  was  a  well-to-do  man  when  I  was  young." 

"Ay!  See  that!  "  says  Jonathan.  "And  you  don't 
long  for  a  revenge  ?  " 

"Eh!  Not  me!  "  answered  the  beggar.  "It  's  too 
long  ago.  But  if  you  '11  give  me  another  mug  of  your 
good  ale,  my  pretty  lady,  I  won't  say  no  to  that." 

. "  And  shalt  have !  And  shalt  have !  "  cried  Jonathan ; 
"  or  brandy  even,  if  you  like  it  better." 

And  as  Cumberland  did  like  it  better,  and  the  hostler 
chimed  in,  the  party  pledged  each  other  in  a  dram  of 
brandy  before  separating. 

As  for  Nance,  she  slipped  forth  into  the  ruins,  partly 
to  avoid  the  hostler's  gallantries,  partly  to  lament  over 
the  defects  of  Mr.  Archer.  Plainly,  he  was  no  hero. 
She  pitied  him ;  she  began  to  feel  a  protecting  interest 
mingle  with  and  almost  supersede  her  admiration,  and 
was  at  the  same  time  disappointed  and  yet  drawn  to 
him.  She  was,  indeed,  conscious  of  such  unshaken 
fortitude  in  her  own  heart,  that  she  was  almost  tempted 
by  an  occasion  to  be  bold  for  two.  She  saw  herself, 
in  a  brave  attitude,  shielding  her  imperfect  hero  from 
the  world;  and  she  saw,  like  a  piece  of  Heaven,  his 
gratitude  for  her  protection. 


344 


LIFE  IN  THE  CASTLE 

From  that  day  forth  the  life  of  these  three  persons  in 
the  ruins  ran  very  smoothly.  Mr.  Archer  now  sat  by 
the  fire  with  a  book,  and  now  passed  whole  days  abroad, 
returning  late,  dead  weary.  His  manner  was  a  mask; 
but  it  was  half  transparent;  through  the  even  tenor  of 
his  gravity  and  courtesy  profound  revolutions  of  feeling 
were  betrayed,  seasons  of  numb  despair,  of  restlessness, 
of  aching  temper.  For  days  he  would  say  nothing  be- 
yond his  usual  courtesies  and  solemn  compliments ;  and 
then,  all  of  a  sudden,  some  fine  evening  beside  the 
kitchen  fire,  he  would  fall  into  a  vein  of  elegant  gossip, 
tell  of  strange  and  interesting  events,  the  secrets  of 
families,  brave  deeds  of  war,  the  miraculous  discovery  of 
crime,  the  visitations  of  the  dead.  Nance  and  her  uncle 
would  sit  till  the  small  hours  with  eyes  wide  open: 
Jonathan  applauding  the  unexpected  incidents  with 
many  a  slap  of  his  big  hand;  Nance,  perhaps,  more 
pleased  with  the  narrator's  eloquence  and  wise  reflec- 
tions. And  then,  again,  days  would  follow  of  abstrac- 
tion, of, listless  humming,  of  frequent  apologies  and 
long  hours  of  silence.  Once  only,  and  then  after  a 
week  of  unrelieved  melancholy,  he  went  over  to  the 
Green  Dragon,  spent  the  afternoon  with  the  landlord 

345 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

and  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  returned  as  on  the  first  nighty 
devious  in  step,  but  courteous  and  unperturbed  of 
speech. 

If  he  seemed  more  natural  and  more  at  his  ease,  it 
was  when  he  found  Nance  alone ;  and  laying  by  some 
of  his  reserve,  talked  before  her  rather  than  to  her  of 
his  destiny,  character,  and  hopes.  To  Nance  these 
interviews  were  but  a  doubtful  privilege.  At  times  he 
would  seem  to  take  a  pleasure  in  her  presence,  to  con- 
sult her  gravely,  to  hear  and  discuss  her  counsels;  at 
times  even,  but  these  were  rare  and  brief,  he  would 
talk  of  herself,  praise  the  qualities  that  she  possessed, 
touch  indulgently  on  her  defects,  and  lend  her  books 
to  read  and  even  examine  her  upon  her  reading;  but 
far  more  often  he  would  fall  into  a  half-unconscious- 
ness, put  her  a  question  and  then  answer  it  himself, 
drop  into  the  veiled  tone  of  voice  of  one  soliloquising, 
and  leave  her  at  last  as  though  he  had  forgotten  her 
existence.  It  was  odd,  too,  that  in  all  this  random  con- 
verse not  a  fact  of  his  past  life,  and  scarce  a  name, 
should  ever  cross  his  lips.  A  profound  reserve  kept 
watch  upon  his  most  unguarded  moments.  He  spoka 
continually  of  himself,  indeed,  but  still  in  enigmas;  the 
veiled  prophet  of  egoism. 

The  base  of  Nance's  feelings  for  Mr.  Archer  was  ads 
miration  as  for  a  superior  being;  and  with  this,  his 
treatment,  consciously  or  not,  accorded  happily.  When 
he  forgot  her,  she  took  the  blame  upon  herself.  His 
formal  politeness  was  so  exquisite  that  this  essential 
brutality  stood  excused.  His  compliments,  besides, 
were  always  grave  and  rational ;  he  would  offer  reason 
for  his  praise,  convict  her  of  merit,  and  thus  disarm 

346 


LIFE   IN   THE  CASTLE 

suspicion.  Nay,  and  the  very  hours  when  he  forgot 
and  remembered  her  alternately  could  by  the  ardent 
fallacies  of  youth  be  read  in  the  light  of  an  attention. 
She  might  be  far  from  his  confidence;  but  still  she  was 
nearer  it  than  any  one.  He  might  ignore  her  presence, 
but  yet  he  sought  it. 

Moreover,  she,  upon  her  side,  was  conscious  of  one 
point  of  superiority.  Beside  this  rather  dismal,  rather 
effeminate  man,  who  recoiled  from  a  worm,  who  grew 
giddy  on  the  castle  wall,  who  bore  so  helplessly  the 
weight  of  his  misfortunes,  she  felt  herself  a  head  and 
shoulders  taller  in  cheerful  and  sterling  courage.  She 
could  walk,  head  in  air,  along  the  most  precarious  rafter; 
her  hand  feared  neither  the  grossness  nor  the  harshness 
of  life's  web,  but  was  thrust  cheerfully,  if  need  were, 
into  the  brier  bush,  and  could  take  hold  of  any  crawling 
horror.  Ruin  was  mining  the  walls  of  her  cottage,  as 
already  it  had  mined  and  subverted  Mr.  Archer's  palace. 
Well,  she  faced  it  with  a  bright  countenance  and  a 
busy  hand.  She  had  got  some  washing,  some  rough 
seamstress  work  from  the  Green  Dragon,  and  from 
another  neighbour  ten  miles  across  the  moor.  At  this 
she  cheerfully  laboured,  and  from  that  height  she  could 
afford  to  pity  the  useless  talents  and  poor  attitude  of 
Mr.  Archer.  It  did  not  change  her  admiration,  but  it 
made  it  bearable.  He  was  above  her  in  all  ways;  but 
she  was  above  him  in  one.  She  kept  it  to  herself,  and 
hugged  it.  When,  like  all  young  creatures,  she  made 
long  stories  to  justify,  to  nourish,  and  to  forecast  the 
course  of  her  affection,  it  was  this  private  superiority 
that  made  all  rosy,  that  cut  the  knot,  and  that,  at  last, 
in  some  great  situation,  fetched  to  her  knees  the  dazzling 

347 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

but  imperfect  hero.  With  this  pretty  exercise  she  be- 
guiled the  hours  of  labour,  and  consoled  herself  for  Mr. 
Archer's  bearing.  Pity  was  her  weapon  and  her  weak- 
ness. To  accept  the  loved  one's  faults,  although  it  has 
an  air  of  freedom,  is  to  kiss  the  chain,  and  this  pity  it 
was  which,  lying  nearer  to  her  heart,  lent  the  one  ele- 
ment of  true  emotion  to  a  fanciful  and  merely  brain- 
sick love. 

Thus  it  fell  out  one  day  that  she  had  gone  to  the  Green 
Dragon  and  brought  back  thence  a  letter  to  Mr.  Archer. 
He,  upon  seeing  it,  winced  like  a  man  under  the  knife: 
pain,  shame,  sorrow,  and  the  most  trenchant  edge  of 
mortification  cut  into  his  heart  and  wrung  the  steady 
composure  of  his  face. 

"  Dear  heart!  have  you  bad  news  ?  "  she  cried. 

But  he  only  replied  by  a  gesture  and  fled  to  his  room, 
and  when,  later  on,  she  ventured  to  refer  to  it,  he 
stopped  her  on  the  threshold,  as  if  with  words  prepared 
beforehand.  "There  are  some  pains,"  said  he,  "too 
acute  for  consolation,  or  I  would  bring  them  to  my  kind 
consoler.  Let  the  memory  of  that  letter,  if  you  please, 
be  buried."  And  then  as  she  continued  to  gaze  at  him, 
being,  in  spite  of  herself,  pained  by  his  elaborate  phrase, 
doubtfully  sincere  in  word  and  matter:  "Let  it  be 
enough,"  he  added  haughtily,  "  that  if  this  matter  wring 
my  heart,  it  doth  not  touch  my  conscience.  I  am  a 
man,  1  would  have  you  to  know,  who  suffers  unde- 
servedly." 

He  had  never  spoken  so  directly:  never  with  so  con- 
vincing an  emotion;  and  her  heart  thrilled  for  him. 
She  could  have  taken  his  pains  and  died  of  them  with 
joy. 

348 


LIFE   IN   THE  CASTLE 

Meanwhile  she  was  left  without  support.  Jonathan 
now  swore  by  his  lodger,  and  lived  for  him.  He  was 
a  fine  talker.  He  knew  the  finest  sight  of  stories;  he 
was  a  man  and  a  gentleman,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  and 
a  perfect  credit  to  Old  England.  Such  were  the  old 
man's  declared  sentiments,  and  sure  enough  he  clung 
to  Mr.  Archer's  side,  hung  upon  his  utterance  when  he 
spoke,  and  watched  him  with  unwearying  interest  when 
he  was  silent.  And  yet  his  feeling  was  not  clear;  in 
the  partial  wreck  of  his  mind,  which  was  leaning  to 
decay,  some  afterthought  was  strongly  present.  As 
he  gazed  in  Mr.  Archer's  face  a  sudden  brightness 
would  kindle  in  his  rheumy  eyes,  his  eyebrows  would 
lift  as  with  a  sudden  thought,  his  mouth  would  open 
as  though  to  speak,  and  close  again  in  silence.  Once 
or  twice  he  even  called  Mr.  Archer  mysteriously  forth 
into  the  dark  courtyard,  took  him  by  the  button,  and 
laid  a  demonstrative  finger  on  his  chest;  but  there  his 
ideas  or  his  courage  failed  him;  he  would  shufflingly 
excuse  himself  and  return  to  his  position  by  the  fire 
without  a  word  of  explanation.  "  The  good  man  was 
growing  old,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  with  a  suspicion  of  a 
shrug.  But  the  good  man  had  his  idea,  and  even  when 
he  was  alone  the  name  of  Mr.  Archer  fell  from  his  lips 
continually  in  the  course  of  mumbled  and  gesticulative 
conversation. 


349 


VI 

THE  BAD  HALF-CROWN 

However  early  Nance  arose,  and  she  was  no  slug- 
gard, the  old  man,  who  had  begun  to  outlive  the  earthly 
habit  of  slumber,  would  usually  have  been  up  long 
before,  the  fire  would  be  burning  brightly,  and  she 
would  see  him  wandering  among  the  ruins,  lantern  in 
hand,  and  talking  assiduously  to  himself.  One  day, 
however,  after  he  had  returned  late  from  the  market- 
town,  she  found  that  she  had  stolen  a  march  upon  that 
indefatigable  early  riser.  The  kitchen  was  all  blackness. 
She  crossed  the  castle  yard  to  the  wood-cellar,  her  steps 
printing  the  thick  hoar-frost.  A  scathing  breeze  blew 
out  of  the  north-east  and  slowly  carried  a  regiment  of 
black  and  tattered  clouds  over  the  face  of  Heaven,  which 
was  already  kindled  with  the  wild  light  of  morning,  but 
where  she  walked,  in  shelter  of  the  ruins,  the  flame  of 
her  candle  burned  steady.  The  extreme  cold  smote 
upon  her  conscience.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  this 
bitter  business  fell  usually  to  the  lot  of  one  so  old  as 
Jonathan,  and  made  desperate  resolutions  to  be  earlier 
in  the  future. 

The  fire  was  a  good  blaze  before  he  entered,  limping 
dismally  into  the  kitchen.  "  Nance,"  said  he,  "  I  be  all 
knotted  up  with  the  rheumatics ;  will  you  rub  me  a 

350 


THE   BAD  HALF-CROWN 

bit  ?  "  She  came  and  rubbed  him  where  and  how  he 
bade  her.  "  This  is  a  cruel  thing  that  old  age  should  be 
rheumaticky,"  said  he.  "When  I  was  young  I  stood 
my  turn  of  the  teethache  like  a  man !  for  why  ?  because 
it  could  n't  last  for  ever;  but  these  rheumatics  come  to 
live  and  die  with  you.  Your  aunt  was  took  before  the 
time  came;  never  had  an  ache  to  mention.  Now  I  lie 
all  night  in  my  single  bed  and  the  blood  never  warms 
in  me;  this  knee  of  mine  it  seems  like  lighted  up  with 
the  rheumatics;  it  seems  as  though  you  could  see  to 
sew  by  it ;  and  all  the  strings  of  my  old  body  ache,  as 
if  devils  was  pulling  'em.  Thank  you  kindly;  that  *s 
someways  easier  now,  but  an  old  man,  my  dear,  has 
little  to  look  for;  it  *s  pain,  pain,  pain  to  the  end  of  the 
business,  and  I  '11  never  be  rightly  warm  again  till  I  get 
under  the  sod,"  he  said,  and  looked  down  at  her  with 
a  face  so  aged  and  weary  that  she  had  nearly  wept. 

"I  lay  awake  all  night,"  he  continued;  "I  do  so 
mostly,  and  a  long  walk  kills  me.  Eh,  deary  me,  to 
think  that  life  should  run  to  such  a  puddle!  And  I 
remember  long  syne  when  I  was  strong,  and  the  blood 
all  hot  and  good  about  me,  and  I  loved  to  run,  too— 
deary  me,  to  run !  Well,  that 's  all  by.  You  'd  better 
pray  to  be  took  early,  Nance,  and  not  live  on  till  you 
get  to  be  like  me,  and  are  robbed  in  your  grey  old  age, 
your  cold,  shivering,  dark  old  age,  that 's  like  a  winter's 
morning";  and  he  bitterly  shuddered,  spreading  his 
hands  before  the  fire. 

"Come  now,"  said  Nance,  "the  more  you  say  the 
less  you  '11  like  it.  Uncle  Jonathan;  but  if  I  were  you  I 
would  be  proud  for  to  have  lived  all  your  days  honest 
and  beloved,  and  come  near  the  end  with  your  good 

35" 


THE   GREAT   NORTH   ROAD 

name:  is  n't  that  a  fine  thing  to  be  proud  of?  Mr. 
Archer  was  telling  me  in  some  strange  land  they  used 
to  run  races  each  with  a  lighted  candle,  and  the  art  was 
to  keep  the  candle  burning.  Well,  now,  I  thought 
that  was  like  life :  a  man's  good  conscience  is  the  flame 
he  gets  to  carry,  and  if  he  comes  to  the  winning-post 
with  that  still  burning,  why,  take  it  how  you  will,  the 
man  's  a  hero— even  if  he  was  low-born  like  you  and 
me." 

"  Did  Mr.  Archer  tell  you  that  ?  "  asked  Jonathan. 

**  No,  dear,"  said  she,  *'  that 's  my  own  thought  about 
it.  He  told  me  of  the  race.  But  see,  now,"  she  con- 
tinued, putting  on  the  porridge,  "  you  say  old  age  is  a 
hard  season,  but  so  is  youth.  You  're  half  out  of  the 
battle,  I  would  say;  you  loved  my  aunt  and  got  her, 
and  buried  her,  and  some  of  these  days  soon  you  '11  go 
to  meet  her;  and  take  her  my  love  and  tell  her  I  tried 
to  take  good, care  of  you;  for  so  I  do.  Uncle  Jonathan." 

Jonathan  struck  with  his  fist  upon  the  settle.  "  D'  ye 
think  I  want  to  die,  ye  vixen!  "  he  shouted.  "  I  want 
to  live  ten  hundred  years." 

This  was  a  mystery  beyond  Nance's  penetration, 
and  she  stared  in  wonder  as  she  made  the  porridge. 

"I  want  to  live,"  he  continued,  "I  want  to  live  and 
to  grow  rich.  I  want  to  drive  my  carriage  and  to  dice 
in  hells  and  see  the  ring,  I  do.  Is  this  a  life  that  I  lived  ? 
I  want  to  be  a  rake,  d'  ye  understand  ?  I  want  to  know 
what  things  are  like.  I  don't  want  to  die  like  a  blind 
kitten,  and  me  seventy-six." 

**0  fie!  "  said  Nance. 

The  old  man  thrust  out  his  jaw  at  her,  with  the 
grimace  of  an  irreverent  schoolboy.     Upon  that  aged 

352 


THE   BAD  HALF-CROWN 

face  it  seemed  a  blasphemy.  Then  he  took  out  of  his 
bosom  a  long  leather  purse,  and  emptying  its  contents 
on  the  settle,  began  to  count  and  recount  the  pieces, 
ringing  and  examining  each,  and  suddenly  he  leapt  like 
a  young  man.  "What!"  he  screamed.  "Bad?  O 
Lord !  I  'm  robbed  again !  "  And  falling  on  his  knees 
before  the  settle  he  began  to  pour  forth  the  most  dread- 
ful curses  on  the  head  of  his  deceiver.  His  eyes  were 
shut,  for  to  him  this  vile  solemnity  was  prayer.  He 
held  up  the  bad  half-crown  in  his  right  hand,  as  though 
he  were  displaying  it  to  Heaven,  and  what  increased  the 
horror  of  the  scene,  the  curses  he  invoked  were  those 
whose  efficacy  he  had  tasted— old  age  and  poverty, 
rheumatism  and  an  ungrateful  son.  Nance  listened 
appalled;  then  she  sprang  forward  and  dragged  down 
his  arm  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  mouth. 

"Whist!"  she  cried.  "Whist  ye,  for  God's  sake! 
O  my  man,  whist  ye!  If  Heaven  were  to  hear;  if  poor 
Aunt  Susan  were  to  hear!  Think,  she  may  be  listen- 
ing." And  with  the  histrionism  of  strong  emotion  she 
pointed  to  a  corner  of  the  kitchen. 

His  eyes  followed  her  finger.  He  looked  there  for  a 
little,  thinking,  blinking;  then  he  got  stiffly  to  his  feet 
and  resumed  his  place  upon  the  settle,  the  bad  piece 
still  in  his  hand.  So  he  sat  for  some  time,  looking  upon 
the  half-crown,  and  now  wondering  to  himself  on  the 
injustice  and  partiality  of  the  law,  now  computing  again 
and  again  the  nature  of  his  loss.  So  he  was  still  sitting 
when  Mr.  Archer  entered  the  kitchen.  At  this  a  light 
came  into  his  face,  and  after  some  seconds  of  rumina- 
tion he  despatched  Nance  upon  an  errand. 

"Mr.  Archer,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone 

353 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

together,  "would  you  give  me  a  guinea-piece  for 
silver  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,  I  believe  I  can,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

And  the  exchange  was  just  effected  when  Nance 
re-entered  the  apartment.  The  blood  shot  into  her  face. 
"  What 's  to  do  here  ?  "  she  asked  rudely. 

"Nothing,  my  deary,"  said  old  Jonathan,  with  a 
touch  of  whine. 

"  What 's  to  do  ?  "  she  said  again. 

"  Your  uncle  was  but  changing  me  a  piece  of  gold," 
returned  Mr.  Archer. 

"Let  me  see  what  he  hath  given  you,  Mr.  Archer," 
replied  the  girl.  "  I  had  a  bad  piece,  and  I  fear  it  is 
mixed  up  among  the  good." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  Mr.  Archer,  smiling,  "I  must 
take  the  merchant's  risk  of  it.  The  money  is  now 
mixed." 

"I  know  my  piece,"  quoth  Nance.  "Come,  let  me 
see  your  silver,  Mr.  Archer.  If  I  have  to  get  it  by  a 
theft  I  '11  see  that  money,"  she  cried. 

"  Nay,  child,  if  you  put  as  much  passion  to  be  honest 
as  the  world  to  steal,  I  must  give  way,  though  I  betray 
myself,"  said  Mr.  Archer.     "  There  it  is  as  I  received  it." 

Nance  quickly  found  the  bad  half-crown.  "  Give  him 
another,"  she  said,  looking  Jonathan  in  the  face;  and 
when  that  had  been  done,  she  walked  over  to  the  chim- 
ney and  flung  the  guilty  piece  into  the  reddest  of  the 
fire.  Its  base  constituents  began  immediately  to  run; 
even  as  she  watched  it  the  disc  crumpled,  and  the 
lineaments  of  the  King  became  confused.  Jonathan, 
who  had  followed  close  behind,  beheld  these  changes 
from  over  her  shoulder,  and  his  face  darkened  sorely. 

354 


THE   BAD  HALF-CROWN 

"Now,"  said  she,  " come  back  to  table,  and  to-day  it 
is  I  that  shall  say  grace,  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  times, 
day  about  with  Dick  " ;  and  covering  her  eyes  with  one 
hand,  '*0  Lord,"  said  she,  with  deep  emotion,  "make 
us  thankful;  and,  O  Lord,  deliver  us  from  evil!  For 
the  love  of  the  poor  souls  that  watch  for  us  in  Heaven, 
O  deliver  us  from  evil  I" 


355 


VII 

THE  BLEACHING-GREEN 

The  year  moved  on  to  March ;  and  March,  though  it 
blew  bitter  keen  from  the  North  Sea,  yet  blinked  kindly 
betweenwhiles  on  the  river  dell.  The  mire  dried  up 
in  the  closest  covert ;  life  ran  in  the  bare  branches,  and 
the  air  of  the  afternoon  would  be  suddenly  sweet  with 
the  fragrance  of  new  grass. 

Above  and  below  the  castle  the  river  crooked  like  the 
letter  "S."  The  lower  loop  was  to  the  left,  and  em- 
braced the  high  and  steep  projection  which  was  crowned 
by  the  ruins ;  the  upper  loop  enclosed  a  lawny  promon- 
tory, fringed  by  thorn  and  willow.  It  was  easy  to 
reach  it  from  the  castle  side,  for  the  river  ran  in  this 
part  very  quietly  among  innumerable  boulders  and  over 
dam-like  walls  of  rock.  The  place  was  all  enclosed, 
the  wind  a  stranger,  the  turf  smooth  and  solid;  so  it 
was  chosen  by  Nance  to  be  her  bleaching-green. 

One  day  she  brought  a  bucketful  of  linen,  and  had 
but  begun  to  wring  and  lay  them  out  when  Mr.  Archer 
stepped  from  the  thicket  on  the  far  side,  drew  very 
deliberately  near,  and  sat  down  in  silence  on  the  grass. 
Nance  looked  up  to  greet  him  with  a  smile,  but  finding 
her  smile  was  not  returned,  she  fell  into  embarrassment 
and  stuck  the  more  busily  to  her  employment.     Man  or 

356 


THE  BLEACHING-GREEN 

woman,  the  whole  world  looks  well  at  any  work  to 
which  they  are  accustomed ;  but  the  girl  was  ashamed 
of  what  she  did.  She  was  ashamed,  besides,  of  the 
sun-bonnet  that  so  well  became  her,  and  ashamed  of 
her  bare  arms,  which  were  her  greatest  beauty. 

"  Nausicaa,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  at  last,  "  I  find  you  like 
Nausicaac " 

"  And  who  was  she  ?  "  asked  Nance,  and  laughed  in 
spite  of  herself,  an  empty  and  embarrassed  laugh,  that 
sounded  in  Mr.  Archer's  ears,  indeed,  like  music,  but  to 
her  own  like  the  last  grossness  of  rusticity. 

"She  was  a  princess  of  the  Grecian  islands,"  he  re- 
plied. "  A  king,  being  shipwrecked,  found  her  washing 
by  the  shore.  Certainly  I,  too,  was  shipwrecked,"  he 
continued,  plucking  at  the  grass.  "  There  was  never  a 
more  desperate  castaway— to  fall  from  polite  life,  for- 
tune, a  shrine  of  honour,  a  grateful  conscience,  duties 
willingly  taken  up  and  faithfully  discharged;  and  to 
fall  to  this— idleness,  poverty,  inutility,  remorse."  He 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  presence,  but  here  he 
remembered  her  again.  "  Nance,"  said  he,  *'  would  you 
have  a  man  sit  down  and  suffer  or  rise  up  and  strive  ?  " 

"Nay,"  she  said.  "I  would  always  rather  see  him 
doing." 

"Ha!  "  said  Mr,  Archer,  "but  yet  you  speak  from 
an  imperfect  knowledge.  Conceive  a  man  damned  to 
a  choice  of  only  evil— misconduct  upon  either  side,  not 
a  fault  behind  him,  and  yet  naught  before  him  but  this 
choice  of  sins.     How  would  you  say  then  ?  " 

"I  would  say  that  he  was  much  deceived,  Mr.  Archer," 
returned  Nance.  "  I  would  say  there  was  a  third  choice, 
and  that  the  right  one." 

357 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "the  man  I  have  in 
view  hath  two  ways  open,  and  no  more.  One  to  wait, 
like  a  poor  mewling  baby,  till  Fate  save  or  ruin  him ;  the 
other  to  take  his  troubles  in  his  hand,  and  to  perish  or 
be  saved  at  once.  It  is  no  point  of  morals;  both  are 
wrong.  Either  way  this  step-child  of  Providence  must 
fall ;  which  shall  he  choose,  by  doing,  or  not  doing  ?  " 

"Fall,  then,  is  what  1  would  say,"  replied  Nance. 
"  Fall  where  you  will,  but  do  it!  For  O,  Mr.  Archer," 
she  continued,  stooping  to  her  work,  "you  that  are 
good  and  kind,  and  so  wise,  it  doth  sometimes  go 
against  my  heart  to  see  you  live  on  here  like  a  sheep  in 
a  turnip-field  I  If  you  were  braver—"  and  here  she 
paused,  conscience-smitten. 

"  Do  I,  indeed,  lack  courage  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Archer 
of  himself.  "Courage,  the  footstool  of  the  virtues, 
upon  which  they  stand  ?  Courage,  that  a  poor  private 
carrying  a  musket  has  to  spare  of;  that  does  not  fail  a 
weasel  or  a  rat;  that  is  a  brutish  faculty?  I  to  fail 
there,  I  wonder  ?  But  what  is  courage,  then  ?  The 
constancy  to  endure  oneself  or  to  see  others  suffer  ? 
The  itch  of  ill-advised  activity— mere  shuttle-wittedness 
—or  to  be  still  and  patient  ?  To  inquire  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  words  is  to  rob  ourselves  of  what  we  seem  to 
know,  and  yet,  of  all  things,  certainly  to  stand  still  is 
the  least  heroic.  Nance,"  he  said,  "did  you  ever  hear 
oi  Hamlet?*' 

"Never,"  said  Nance. 

"T  is  an  old  play,"  returned  Mr.  Archer,  "and  fre- 
quently enacted.  This  while  I  have  been  talking  Ham- 
let. You  must  know  this  Hamlet  was  a  Prince  among 
the  Danes,"  and  he  told  her  the  play  in  a  very  good 

358 


THE   BLEACHING-GREEN 

Style,  here  and  there  quoting  a  verse  or  two  with  solemn 
emphasis. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Nance;  "he  was  then  a  very 
poor  creature  ?  " 

"That  was  what  he  could  not  tell,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 
**  Look  at  me;  am  I  as  poor  a  creature  ?  " 

She  looked,  and  what  she  saw  was  the  familiar 
thought  of  all  her  hours;  the  tall  figure  very  plainly 
habited  in  black,  the  spotless  ruffles,  the  slim  hands; 
the  long,  well-shapen,  serious,  shaven  face,  the  wide 
and  somewhat  thin-lipped  mouth,  the  dark  eyes  that 
were  so  full  of  depth  and  change  and  colour.  He  was 
gazing  at  her  with  his  brows  a  little  knit,  his  chin  upon 
one  hand  and  that  elbow  resting  on  his  knee. 

"Ye  look  a  man!  "  she  cried,  "ay,  and  should  be  a 
great  one!  The  more  shame  to  you  to  lie  here  idle 
like  a  dog  before  the  fire." 

"My  fair  Holdaway,"  quoth  Mr.  Archer,  "you  are 
much  set  on  action.  I  cannot  dig,  to  beg  1  am  ashamed  " 
He  continued,  looking  at  her  with  a  half-absent  fixity: 
"  'T  is  a  strange  thing,  certainly,  that  in  my  years  of 
fortune  I  should  never  taste  happiness,  and  now  when 
I  am  broke,  enjoy  so  much  of  it,  for  was  I  ever  happier 
than  to-day  ?  Was  the  grass  softer,  the  stream  pleasante/ 
in  sound,  the  air  milder,  the  heart  more  at  peace  ?  Why 
should  I  not  sink  ?  To  dig— why,  after  all,  it  should 
be  easy.  To  take  a  mate,  too  ?  Love  is  of  all  grades 
since  Jupiter;  love  fails  to  none;  and  children—"  but 
here  he  passed  his  hand  suddenly  over  his  eyes.  "  O 
fool  and  coward,  fool  and  coward!  "  he  said  bitterly; 
"  can  you  forget  your  fetters  ?  You  did  not  know  that 
I  was  fettered,  Nance.?  "  he  asked,  again  addressing  her. 

359 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

But  Nance  was  somewhat  sore.  "  I  know  you  keep 
talking,"  she  said,  and,  turning  half  away  from  him, 
began  to  wring  out  a  sheet  across  her  shoulder.  "  I 
wonder  you  are  not  wearied  of  your  voice.  When  the 
hands  lie  abed  the  tongue  takes  a  walk." 

Mr.  Archer  laughed  unpleasantly,  rose  and  moved  to 
the  water's  edge.  In  this  part  the  body  of  the  river 
poured  across  a  little  narrow  fell,  ran  some  ten  feet  very 
smoothly  over  a  bed  of  pebbles,  then  getting  wind,  as 
it  were,  of  another  shelf  of  rock  which  barred  the 
channel,  began,  by  imperceptible  degrees,  to  separate 
towards  either  shore  in  dancing  currents,  and  to  leave 
the  middle  clear  and  stagnant.  The  set  towards  either 
side  was  nearly  equal:  about  one  half  of  the  whole 
water  plunged  on  the  side  of  the  castle,  through  a 
narrow  gullet;  about  one  half  ran  lipping  past  the 
margin  of  the  green  and  slipped  across  a  babbling  rapid. 

"Here,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  after  he  had  looked  for 
some  time  at  the  fine  and  shifting  demarcation  of  these 
currents,  "  come  here  and  see  me  try  my  fortune." 

"  I  am  not  like  a  man,"  said  Nance;  "  I  have  no  time 
to  waste." 

"Come  here,"  he  said  again.  "I  ask  you  seriously, 
Nance.     We  are  not  always  childish  when  we  seem  so. " 

She  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  see  these  two  channels- 
choose  one." 

"  I  '11  choose  the  nearest,  to  save  time,"  said  Nance. 

"Well,  that  shall  be  for  action,"  returned  Mr.  Archen 
"  And  since  I  wish  to  have  the  odds  against  me,  not 
only  the  other  channel  but  yon  stagnant  water  in  the 
midst  shall  be  for  lying  still.     You  see  this.?  "  he  con- 

360 


THE  BLEACHING-GREEN 

tinued,  pulling  up  a  withered  rush,  "  I  break  it  in  three. 
I  shall  put  each  separately  at  the  top  of  the  upper  fall, 
and  according  as  they  go  by  your  way  or  by  the  other 
I  shall  guide  my  life." 

"This  is  very  silly,"  said  Nance,  with  a  movement 
of  her  shoulders. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  so,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

"And  then,"  she  resumed,  "if  you  are  to  try  your 
fortune,  why  not  evenly  ?  " 

"Nay,"  returned  Mr.  Archer,  with  a  smile,  "no  man 
can  put  complete  reliance  in  blind  Fate;  he  must  still 
cog  the  dice." 

By  this  time  he  had  got  upon  the  rock  beside  the 
upper  fall,  and,  bidding  her  look  out,  dropped  a  piece 
of  rush  into  the  middle  of  the  intake.  The  rusty  frag- 
ment was  sucked  at  once  over  the  fall,  came  up  again 
far  on  the  right  hand,  leaned  ever  more  and  more  in 
the  same  direction,  and  disappeared  under  the  hanging 
grasses  on  the  castle  side. 

"  One,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "  one  for  standing  still." 

But  the  next  launch  had  a  different  fate,  and  after 
hanging  for  a  while  about  the  edge  of  the  stagnant 
water,  steadily  approached  the  bleaching-green  and 
danced  down  the  rapid  under  Nance's  eyes. 

"One  for  me,"  she  cried  with  some  exultation;  and 
then  she  observed  that  Mr.  Archer  had  grown  pale,  and 
was  kneeling  on  the  rock,  with  his  hand  raised  like  a 
person  petrified.  "  Why,"  said  she,  "  you  do  not  mind 
it,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Does  a  man  not  mind  a  throw  of  dice  by  which 
a  fortune  hangs  ?  "  said  Mr.  Archer,  rather  hoarsely. 
"  And  this  is  more  than  fortune.     Nance,  if  you  have 

361 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

any  kindness  for  my  fate,  put  up  a  prayer  before  I 
launch  the  next  one." 

"A  prayer,"  she  cried,  "about  a  game  like  this?  I 
would  not  be  so  heathen." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "then  without,"  and  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  dropped  the  piece  of  rush.  This  time  there 
was  no  doubt.  It  went  for  the  rapid  as  straight  as  any 
arrow. 

"  Action  then!  "  said  Mr.  Archer,  getting  to  his  feet; 
"and  then  God  forgive  us,"  he  added,  almost  to  him- 
self. 

" God  forgive  us,  indeed,"  cried  Nance,  "for  wasting 
the  good  daylight!  But  come,  Mr.  Archer,  if  I  see  you 
look  so  serious  I  shall  begin  to  think  you  was  in  earnest." 

"Nay,"  he  said,  turning  upon  her  suddenly,  with  a 
full  smile;  "but  is  not  this  good  advice ?  1  have  con- 
sulted God  and  demigod ;  the  nymph  of  the  river,  and 
what  I  far  more  admire  and  trust,  my  blue-eyed  Minerva. 
Both  have  said  the  same.  My  own  heart  was  telling  it 
already.  Action,  then,  be  mine;  and  into  the  deep  sea 
with  all  this  paralysing  casuistry.  I  am  happy  to-day 
for  the  first  time." 


362 


VIII 

THE  MAIL-GUARD 

Somewhere  about  two  in  the  morning  a  squall  had 
burst  upon  the  castle,  a  clap  of  screaming  wind  that 
made  the  towers  rock,  and  a  copious  drift  of  rain  that 
streamed  from  the  windows.  The  wind  soon  blew 
itself  out,  but  the  day  broke  cloudy  and  dripping,  and 
when  the  little  party  assembled  at  breakfast,  their 
humours  appeared  to  have  changed  with  the  change  of 
weather.  Nance  had  been  brooding  on  the  scene  at 
the  river-side,  applying  it  in  various  ways  to  her  par- 
ticular aspirations,  and  the  result,  which  was  hardly  to 
her  mind,  had  taken  the  colour  out  of  her  cheeks.  Mr. 
Archer,  too,  was  somewhat  absent;  his  thoughts  were 
of  a  mingled  strain ;  and  even  upon  his  usually  impas- 
sive countenance  there  were  betrayed  successive  depths 
of  depression  and  starts  of  exultation,  which  the  girl 
translated  in  terms  of  her  own  hopes  and  fears.  But 
Jonathan  was  the  most  altered :  he  was  strangely  silent, 
hardly  passing  a  word,  and  watched  Mr.  Archer  with 
an  eager  and  furtive  eye.  It  seemed  as  if  the  idea  that 
had  so  long  hovered  before  him  had  now  taken  a  more 
solid  shape,  and,  while  it  still  attracted,  somewhat 
alarmed  his  imagination. 

At  this  rate,  conversation  languished  into  a  silence 
363 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

which  was  only  broken  by  the  gentle  and  ghostly  noises 
of  the  rain  on  the  stone  roof  and  about  all  that  field  of 
ruins;  and  they  were  all  relieved  when  the  note  of  a 
man  whistling  and  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps 
in  the  grassy  court  announced  a  visitor.  It  was  the 
hostler  from  the  Green  Dragon  bringing  a  letter  for  Mr. 
Archer.  Nance  saw  her  hero's  face  contract  and  then 
relax  again  at  the  sight  of  it;  and  she  thought  that 
she  knew  why,  for  the  sprawling,  gross  black  char- 
acters of  the  address  were  easily  distinguishable  from 
the  fine  writing  on  the  former  letter  that  had  so  much 
disturbed  him.  He  opened  it  and  began  to  read; 
while  the  hostler  sat  down  to  table  with  a  pot  of  ale, 
and  proceeded  to  make  himself  agreeable  after  his 
fashion. 

"  Fine  doings  down  our  way,  Miss  Nance,"  said  he. 
"  I  have  n't  been  abed  this  blessed  night." 

Nance  expressed  a  polite  interest,  but  her  eye  was  on 
Mr.  Archer,  who  was  reading  his  letter  with  a  face  of 
such  extreme  indifference  that  she  was  tempted  to  sus- 
pect him  of  assumption. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  hostler,  "not  been  the  like  of 
it  this  fifteen  years :  the  North  Mail  stopped  at  the  three 
stones." 

Jonathan's  cup  was  at  his  lip,  but  at  this  moment  he 
choked  with  a  great  splutter;  and  Mr.  Archer,  as  if 
startled  by  the  noise,  made  so  sudden  a  movement  that 
one  corner  of  the  sheet  tore  off  and  stayed  between  his 
finger  and  thumb.  It  was  some  little  time  before  the 
old  man  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  beg  the  hostler 
to  go  on,  and  he  still  kept  coughing  and  crying  and 
rubbing  his  eyes.     Mr.  Archer,  on  his  side,  laid  the 

364 


THE   MAIL-GUARD 

letter  down,  and  putting  his  hands  in  his  pocket,  lis- 
tened gravely  to  the  tale. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Sam,  "the  North  Mail  was  stopped 
by  a  single  horseman ;  dash  my  wig,  but  I  admire  him ! 
There  were  four  insides  and  two  out,  and  poor  Tom 
Oglethorpe,  the  guard.  Tom  showed  himself  a  man ; 
let  fly  his  blunderbuss  at  him;  had  him  covered,  too, 
and  could  swear  to  that ;  but  the  Captain  never  let  on, 
up  with  a  pistol  and  fetched  poor  Tom  a  bullet  through 
the  body.  Tom,  he  squelched  upon  the  seat,  all  over 
blood.  Up  comes  the  Captain  to  the  window.  *  Oblige 
me,'  says  he,  *with  what  you  have.'  Would  you  be- 
lieve it?  not  a  man  says  cheep!— not  them!  *Thy 
hands  over  thy  head. '  Four  watches,  rings,  snuff-boxes, 
seven-and-forty  pounds  overhead  in  gold.  One  Dick- 
see,  a  grazier,  tries  it  on :  gives  him  a  guinea.  *  Beg 
your  pardon,'  says  the  Captain,  *I  think  too  highly  of 
you  to  take  it  at  your  hand.  I  will  not  take  less  than 
ten  from  such  a  gentleman.'  This  Dicksee  had  his 
money  in  his  stocking,  but  there  was  the  pistol  at  his 
eye.  Down  he  goes,  offs  with  his  stocking,  and  there 
was  thirty  golden  guineas.  'Now,'  says  the  Captain, 
*  you  've  tried  it  on  with  me,  but  I  scorns  the  advantage. 
Ten,  I  said,'  he  says,  'and  ten  1  take.'  So,  dash  my 
buttons,  I  call  that  man  a  man !  "  cried  Sam,  in  cordial 
admiration. 

"  Well,  and  then?  "  says  Mr.  Archer. 

"Then,"  resumed  Sam,  "that  old  fat  fagot  Engleton, 
him  as  held  the  ribbons  and  drew  up  like  a  lamb  when 
he  was  told  to,  picks  up  his  cattle,  and  drives  off  again. 
Down  they  came  to  the  Dragon,  all  singing  like  as  if 
they  was  scalded,  and  poor  Tom  saying  nothing.     You 

365 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

would  'a*  thought  they  had  all  lost  the  King's  crown 
to  hear  them.  Down  gets  this  Dicksee.  '  Postmaster,' 
he  says,  taking  him  by  the  arm,  '  this  is  a  most  abomi- 
nable thing,*  he  says.  Down  gets  a  Major  Clayton,  and 
gets  the  old  man  by  the  other  arm.  *  We  've  been 
robbed,'  he  cries,  *  robbed!'  Down  gets  the  others, 
and  all  round  the  old  man  telling  their  story,  and  what 
they  had  lost,  and  how  they  was  all  as  good  as  ruined ; 
till  at  last  old  Engleton  says,  says  he,  '  How  about 
Oglethorpe  ?  '  says  he.  *  Ay, '  says  the  others,  '  how 
about  the  guard  ?  '  Well,  with  that  we  bousted  him 
down,  as  white  as  a  rag  and  all  blooded  like  a  sop.  I 
thought  he  was  dead.  Well,  he  ain't  dead;  but  he  's 
dying,  I  fancy." 

"  Did  you  say  four  watches  ?  "  said  Jonathan. 

"  Four,  I  think.  I  wish  it  had  been  forty,"  cried  Sam. 
*VSuch  a  party  of  soured  herrings  I  never  did  see— not 
a  man  among  them  bar  poor  Tom.  But  us  that  are  the 
servants  on  the  road  have  all  the  risk  and  none  of  the 
profit." 

"And  this  brave  fellow."  asked  Mr.  Archer,  very 
quietly,  "this  Oglethorpe— how  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  with  my  respects,  I  take  it  he  has  a  hole 
bang  through  him,"  said  Sam.  "The  doctor  has  n't 
been  yet.  He  'd  'a'  been  bright  and  early  if  it  had  been 
a  passenger.  But,  doctor  or  no,  1  '11  make  a  good  guess 
that  Tom  won't  see  to-morrow.  He  '11  die  on  a  Sun- 
day, will  poor  Tom;  and  they  do  say  that 's  fortunate." 

"  Did  Tom  see  him  that  did  it  ?  "  asked  Jonathan. 

"  Well,  he  saw  him,"  replied  Sam,  "  but  not  to  swear 
by.  Said  he  was  a  very  tall  man,  and  very  big,  and 
had  a  'andkerchief  about  his  face,  and  a  very  quick 

366 


THE  MAIL-GUARD 

shot,  and  sat  his  horse  like  a  thorough  gentleman,  as 
he  is." 

"  A  gentleman !  "  cried  Nance.     '*  The  dirty  knave !  " 

"  Well,  I  calls  a  man  like  that  a  gentleman,"  returned 
the  hostler;  "that 's  what  I  mean  by  a  gentleman." 

"  You  don't  know  much  of  them,  then,"  said  Nance. 
"  A  gentleman  would  scorn  to  stoop  to  such  a  thing. 
I  call  my  uncle  a  better  gentleman  than  any  thief." 

"  And  you  would  be  right,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

"  How  many  snuff-boxes  did  he  get  ?  "  asked  Jona- 
than. 

"O,  dang  me,  if  I  know,"  said  Sam;  "I  did  n't  take 
an  inventory." 

"I  will  go  back  with  you,  if  you  please,"  said  Mr. 
Archer.  "  I  should  like  to  see  poor  Oglethorpe.  He 
has  behaved  well." 

"  At  your  service,  sir,"  said  Sam,  jumping  to  his  feet. 
"  1  dare  to  say  a  gentleman  like  you  would  not  forget  a 
poor  fellow  like  Tom— no,  nor  a  plain  man  like  me,  sir, 
that  went  without  his  sleep  to  nurse  him.  And  excuse 
me,  sir,"  added  Sam,  "you  won't  forget  about  the 
letter,  neither  ?  " 

"Surely  not,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

Oglethorpe  lay  in  a  low  bed,  one  of  several  in  a  long 
garret  of  the  inn.  The  rain  soaked  in  places  through 
the  roof  and  fell  in  minute  drops;  there  was  but  one 
small  window;  the  beds  were  occupied  by  servants, 
the  air  of  the  garret  was  both  close  and  chilly.  Mr. 
Archer's  heart  sank  at  the  threshold  to  see  a  man  lying 
perhaps  mortally  hurt  in  so  poor  a  sick-room,  and  as  he 
drew  near  the  low  bed  he  took  his  hat  off.  The  guard 
was  a  big,  blowzy,  innocent-looking  soul  with  a  thick 

367 


THE  GREAT  NORTH   ROAD 

lip  and  a  broad  nose,  comically  turned  up;  his  cheeks 
were  crimson,  and  when  Mr.  Archer  laid  a  finger  on 
his  brow  he  found  him  burning  with  fever. 

"I  fear  you  suffer  much,"  he  said,  with  a  catch  in 
his  voice,  as  he  sat  down  on  the  bedside. 

"I  suppose  I  do,  sir,"  returned  Oglethorpe;  "it  is 
main  sore." 

"  I  am  used  to  wounds  and  wounded  men,"  returned 
the  visitor.  "  I  have  been  in  the  wars  and  nursed  brave 
fellows  before  now ;  and,  if  you  will  suffer  me,  I  pro- 
pose to  stay  beside  you  till  the  doctor  comes." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,  sir,  I  am  sure,"  said  Ogle- 
thorpe. "  The  trouble  is  they  won't  none  of  them  let 
me  drink." 

"  If  you  will  not  tell  the  doctor,"  said  Mr,  Archer,  "  I 
will  give  you  some  water.  They  say  it  is  bad  for  a 
green  wound,  but  in  the  Low  Countries  we  all  drank 
water  when  we  found  the  chance,  and  I  could  never 
perceive  we  were  the  worse  for  it." 

"  Been  wounded  yourself,  sir,  perhaps  ?  "  called  Ogle- 
thorpe. 

"Twice,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "and  was  as  proud  of 
these  hurts  as  any  lady  of  her  bracelets.  T  is  a  fine 
thing  to  smart  for  one's  duty;  even  in  the  pangs  of  it 
there  is  contentment." 

"  Ah,  well!  "  replied  the  guard,  "  if  you  've  been  shot 
yourself,  that  explains.  But  as  for  contentment,  why, 
sir,  you  see,  it  smarts,  as  you  say.  And  then,  I  have 
a  good  wife,  you  see,  and  a  bit  of  a  brat— a  little  thing, 
so  high." 

"  Don't  move,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

"No,  sir,  I  will  not,  and  thank  you  kindly,"  said 
368 


THE  MAIL-GUARD 

Oglethorpe.  "  At  York  they  are.  A  very  good  lass  is 
my  wife— far  too  good  for  me.  And  the  little  rascal- 
well,  1  don't  know  how  to  say  it,  but  he  sort  of  comes 
around  you.  If  I  were  to  go,  sir,  it  would  be  hard  on 
my  poor  girl— main  hard  on  her!  " 

"  Ay,  you  must  feel  bitter  hardly  to  the  rogue  that 
laid  you  here,"  said  Mr.  Archer. 

"  Why,  no,  sir,  more  against  Engleton  and  the  pas- 
sengers," replied  the  guard.  "He  played  his  hand,  if 
you  come  to  look  at  it;  and  I  wish  he  had  shot  worse, 
or  me  better.  And  yet  I  '11  go  to  my  grave  but  what  I 
covered  him,"  he  cried.  "  It  looks  like  witchcraft.  I  '11 
go  to  my  grave  but  what  he  was  drove  full  of  slugs  like 
a  pepper-box." 

"Quietly,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "you  must  not  excite 
yourself.  These  deceptions  are  very  usual  in  war;  the 
eye,  in  a  moment  of  alert,  is  hardly  to  be  trusted,  and 
when  the  smoke  blows  away  you  see  the  man  you  fired 
at,  taking  aim,  it  may  be,  at  yourself.  You  should 
observe,  too,  that  you  were  in  the  dark  night,  and 
somewhat  dazzled  by  the  lamps,  and  that  the  sudden 
stopping  of  the  mail  had  jolted  you.  In  such  circum- 
stances a  man  may  miss,  ay,  even  with  a  blunderbuss, 
and  no  blame  attach  to  his  marksmanship."  .  .  . 


369 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

The  Editor  is  unable  to  furnish  any  information  as  to  the  intended 
plot  of  the  story  which  breaks  off  thus  abruptly.  From  very  early  days 
Mr.  Stevenson  had  purposed  to  write  (since  circumstances  did  not 
allow  him  to  enact)  a  romance  of  the  highway.  The  purpose  seems  to 
have  ripened  after  his  recovery  from  the  acute  attack  of  illness  which  in- 
terrupted his  work  from  about  Christmas,  1883,  to  September,  1884.  The 
chapters  above  printed  were  written  at  Bournemouth  soon  after  the  latter 
date;  but  neither  Mr.  Henley  nor  1,  though  we  remember  many  conver- 
sations with  the  writer  on  highway  themes  in  general,  can  recall  the  origin 
or  intended  course  of  this  particular  story.  Its  plot  can  hardly  be  forecast 
from  these  opening  chapters ;  nor  do  the  writer's  own  words,  in  a  letter 
written  at  the  time  to  Mr.  Henley,  take  us  much  further,  except  in  so  far 
as  they  show  that  it  was  growing  under  his  hands  to  be  a  more  serious 
effort  than  he  first  contemplated.  "  The  Great  North  Road,^'  he  writes, 
"  which  1  thought  to  rattle  off,  like  Treasure  Island,  for  coin,  has  turned 
into  my  most  ambitious  design,  and  will  take  piles  of  writing  and  think- 
ing ;  so  that  is  what  m.y  highwayman  has  turned  to !  The  ways  of  Provi- 
dence are  inscrutable.  Mr.  Archer  and  Jonathan  Holdaway  are  both  giand 
premier  parts  of  unusual  difficulty,  and  Nance  and  the  Sergeant— the  first 
very  delicate,  and  the  second  demanding  great  geniality.  I  quail  before 
the  gale,  but  so  help  me,  it  shall  be  done.  It  is  highly  picturesque,  most 
dramatic,  and  if  it  can  be  made,  as  human  as  man.  Besides,  it  is  a  true 
storjy,  and  not,  like  Otto,  one  half  story  and  one  half  play."  Soon 
after  the  date  of  this  letter  the  author  laid  aside  the  tale  in  order  to  finish 
for  press  the  second  half  of  More  New  Arabian  Nights— The  Dynamiter, 
and  never  took  it  up  again. 


370 


THE  YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

A  FRAGMENT 


Now  printed  for  the  first  tim$ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Prologue— The  Wine-Seller's  Wife 375 

I  The  Prince ^gy 

Editorial  Note 3pi 


THE  YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

PROLOGUE 

THE  wine-seller's  WIFE 

THERE  was  a  wine-seller's  shop,  as  you  went  down 
to  the  river  in  the  city  of  the  Antipopes.  There 
a  man  was  served  with  good  wine  of  the  country  and 
plain  country  fare ;  and  the  place  being  clean  and  quiet, 
with  a  prospect  on  the  river,  certain  gentlemen  who 
dwelt  in  that  city  in  attendance  on  a  great  personage 
made  it  a  practice  (when  they  had  any  silver  in  their 
purses)  to  come  and  eat  there  and  be  private. 

They  called  the  wine-seller  Paradou.  He  was  built 
more  like  a  bullock  than  a  man,  huge  in  bone  and 
brawn,  high  in  colour,  and  with  a  hand  like  a  baby  for 
size.  Marie-Madeleine  was  the  name  of  his  wife;  she 
was  of  Marseilles,  a  city  of  entrancing  women,  nor 
was  any  fairer  than  herself.  She  was  tall,  being  almost 
of  a  height  with  Paradou ;  full-girdled,  point-device  in 
every  form,  with  an  exquisite  delicacy  in  the  face;  her 
nose  and  nostrils  a  delight  to  look  at  from  the  fineness 
of  the  sculpture,  her  eyes  inclined  a  hair's-breadth  in- 
ward, her  colour  between  dark  and  fair,  and  laid  on 

375 


THE   YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

even  like  a  flower's.  A  faint  rose  dwelt  in  it,  as  though 
she  had  been  found  unawares  bathing,  and  had  blushed 
from  head  to  foot.  She  was  of  a  grave  countenance, 
rarely  smiling;  yet  it  seemed  to  be  written  upon  every 
part  of  her  that  she  rejoiced  in  life.  Her  husband  loved 
the  heels  of  her  feet  and  the  knuckles  of  her  fingers ;  he 
loved  her  like  a  glutton  and  a  brute;  his  love  hung 
about  her  like  an  atmosphere;  one  that  came  by  chance 
into  the  wine-shop  was  aware  of  that  passion;  and  it 
might  be  said  that  by  the  strength  of  it  the  woman 
had  been  drugged  or  spell-bound.  She  knew  not  if 
she  loved  or  loathed  him;  he  was  always  in  her  eyes 
like  something  monstrous— monstrous  in  his  love, 
monstrous  in  his  person,  horrific  but  imposing  in  his 
violence;  and  her  sentiment  swung  back  and  forward 
from  desire  to  sickness.  But  the  mean,  where  it  dwelt 
chiefly,  was  an  apathetic  fascination,  partly  of  horror; 
as  of  Europa  in  mid-ocean  with  her  bull. 

On  the  loth  November,  1749,  there  sat  two  of  the 
foreign  gentlemen  in  the  wine-seller's  shop.  They 
were  both  handsome  men  of  a  good  presence,  richly 
dressed.  The  first  was  swarthy  and  long  and  lean, 
with  an  alert,  black  look,  and  a  mole  upon  his  cheek. 
The  other  was  more  fair.  He  seemed  very  easy  and 
sedate,  and  a  little  melancholy  for  so  young  a  man,  but 
his  smile  was  charming.  In  his  grey  eyes  there  was 
much  abstraction,  as  of  one  recalling  fondly  that  which 
was  past  and  lost.  Yet  there  was  strength  and  swift- 
ness in  his  limbs ;  and  his  mouth  set  straight  across  his 
face,  the  under  lip  a  thought  upon  side,  like  that  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  resolve.  These  two  talked  together 
in  a  rude  outlandish  speech  that  no  frequenter  of  that 

376 


THE  WINE-SELLER'S  WIFE 

wine-shop  understood.  The  swarthy  man  answered 
to  the  name  of  Ballantrae;  he  of  the  dreamy  eyes  was 
sometimes  called  Balmile,  and  sometimes  my  Lordy  or 
my  Lord  Gladsmuir;  but  when  the  title  was  given  him, 
he  seemed  to  put  it  by  as  if  in  jesting,  not  without 
bitterness. 

The  mistral  blew  in  the  city.  The  first  day  of  that 
wind,  they  say  in  the  countries  where  its  voice  is  heard, 
it  blows  away  all  the  dust,  the  second  all  the  stones, 
and  the  third  it  blows  back  others  from  the  mountains. 
It  was  now  come  to  the  third  day;  outside  the  pebbles 
flew  like  hail,  and  the  face  of  the  river  was  puckered, 
and  the  very  building-stones  in  the  walls  of  houses 
seemed  to  be  curdled,  with  the  savage  cold  and  fury  of 
that  continuous  blast.  It  could  be  heard  to  hoot  in  all 
the  chimneys  of  the  city;  it  swept  about  the  wine-shop, 
filling  the  room  with  eddies ;  the  chill  and  gritty  touch 
of  it  passed  between  the  nearest  clothes  and  the  bare 
flesh ;  and  the  two  gentlemen  at  the  far  table  kept  their 
mantles  loose  about  their  shoulders.  The  roughness 
of  these  outer  hulls,  for  they  were  plain  travellers'  cloaks 
that  had  seen  service,  set  the  greater  mark  of  richness 
on  what  showed  below  of  their  laced  clothes;  for  the 
one  was  in  scarlet  and  the  other  in  violet  and  white, 
like  men  come  from  a  scene  of  ceremony;  as  indeed 
they  were. 

It  chanced  that  these  fine  clothes  were  not  without 
their  influence  on  the  scene  which  followed,  and  which 
makes  the  prologue  of  our  tale.  For  a  long  time  Bal- 
mile was  in  the  habit  to  come  to  the  wine-shop  and  eat 
a  meal  or  drink  a  measure  of  wine;  sometimes  with  a 
comrade;  more  often  alone,  when  he  would  sit  and 

377 


THE  YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

dream  and  drum  upon  the  table,  and  the  thoughts 
would  show  in  the  man's  face  in  little  glooms  and 
lightenings,  like  the  sun  and  the  clouds  upon  a  water. 
For  a  long  time  Marie-Madeleine  had  observed  him 
apart.  His  sadness,  the  beauty  of  his  smile  when  by 
any  chance  he  remembered  her  existence  and  addressed 
her,  the  changes  of  his  mind  signalled  forth  by  an 
abstruse  play  of  feature,  the  mere  fact  that  he  was 
foreign  and  a  thing  detached  fxom  the  local  and  the 
accustomed,  insensibly  attracted  and  affected  her. 
Kindness  was  ready  in  her  mind;  it  but  lacked  the 
touch  of  an  occasion  to  effervesce  and  crystallise.  Now 
Balmile  had  come  hitherto  in  a  very  poor  plain  habit; 
and  this  day  of  the  mistral,  when  his  mantle  was  just 
open,  and  she  saw  beneath  it  the  glancing  of  the  violet 
and  the  velvet  and  the  silver,  and  the  clustering  fineness 
of  the  lace,  it  seemed  to  set  the  man  in  a  new  light, 
with  which  he  shone  resplendent  to  her  fancy. 

The  high  inhuman  note  of  the  w^nd,  the  violence  and 
continuity  of  its  outpouring,  and  the  fierce  touch  of  it 
upon  man's  whole  periphery,  accelerated  the  functions 
of  the  mind.  It  set  thoughts  whirling,  as  it  whirled 
the  trees  of  the  forest;  it  stirred  them  up  in  flights,  as 
it  stirred  up  the  dust  in  chambers.  As  brief  as  sparks, 
the  fancies  glittered  and  succeeded  each  other  in  the 
mind  of  Marie-Madeleine;  and  the  grave  man  with  the 
smile,  and  the  bright  clothes  under  the  plain  mantle, 
haunted  her  with  incongruous  explanations.  She  con- 
sidered him,  the  unknown,  the  speaker  of  an  unknown 
tongue,  the  hero  (as  she  placed  him)  of  an  unknown 
romance,  the  dweller  upon  unknown  memories.  She 
recalled  him  sitting  there  alone,  so  immersed,  so  stupe- 

378 


THE   WINE-SELLER'S  WIFE 

fled ;  yet  she  was  sure  he  was  not  stupid.  She  recalled 
one  day  when  he  had  remained  a  long  time  motionless, 
with  parted  lips,  like  one  in  the  act  of  starting  up,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  Any  one  else  must  have  looked 
foolish ;  but  not  he.  She  tried  to  conceive  what  manner 
of  memory  had  thus  entranced  him ;  she  forged  for  him 
ai  past;  she  showed  him  to  herself  in  every  light  of 
heroism  and  greatness  and  misfortune;  she  brooded 
with  petulant  intensity  on  all  she  knew  and  guessed  of 
him.  Yet,  though  she  was  already  gone  so  deep,  she 
was  still  unashamed,  still  unalarmed;  her  thoughts 
were  still  disinterested ;  she  had  still  to  reach  the  stage 
at  which— beside  the  image  of  that  other  whom  we 
love  to  contemplate  and  to  adorn— we  place  the  image 
of  ourself  and  behold  them  together  with  delight. 

She  stood  within  the  counter,  her  hands  clasped  be- 
hind her  back,  her  shoulders  pressed  against  the  wall, 
her  feet  braced  out.  Her  face  was  bright  with  the  wind 
and  her  own  thoughts;  as  a  fire  in  a  similar  day  of 
tempest  glows  and  brightens  on  a  hearth,  so  she  seemed 
to  glow,  standing  there,  and  to  breathe  out  energy.  It 
was  the  first  time  Ballantrae  had  visited  that  wine- 
seller's,  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  wife;  and  his 
eyes  were  true  to  her. 

"  I  perceive  your  reason  for  carrying  me  to  this  very 
draughty  tavern,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  believe  it  is  propinquity,"  returned  Balmile. 

"You  play  dark,"  said  Ballantrae,  "but  have  a  care  J 
Be  more  frank  with  me,  or  I  will  cut  you  out.  I  go 
through  no  form  of  qualifying  my  threat,  which  would 
be  commonplace  and  not  conscientious.  There  is  only 
one  point  in  these  campaigns:  that  is  the  degree  of 

379 


THE   YOUNG   CHEVALIER 

admiration  offered  by  the  man;  and  to  our  hostess  I 
am  in  a  posture  to  make  victorious  love." 

"  If  you  think  you  have  the  time,  or  the  game  worth 
the  candle,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  shrug. 

"  One  would  suppose  you  were  never  at  the  pains  to 
observe  her,"  said  Ballantrae. 

"  I  am  not  very  observant, "  said  Balmile.  "  She  seems 
comely." 

"You  very  dear  and  dull  dog!"  cried  Ballantrae; 
"  chastity  is  the  most  besotting  of  the  virtues.  Why, 
she  has  a  look  in  her  face  beyond  singing!  I  believe, 
if  you  were  to  push  me  hard,  I  might  trace  it  home 
to  a  trifle  of  a  squint.  What  matters.?^  The  height  of 
beauty  is  in  the  touch  that 's  wrong,  that 's  the  modu- 
lation in  a  tune.  'T  is  the  devil  we  all  love ;  I  owe  many 
a  conquest  to  my  mole  "—he  touched  it  as  he  spoke 
with  a  smile,  and  his  eyes  glittered;  "we  are  all 
hunchbacks,  and  beauty  is  only  that  kind  of  deformity 
that  I  happen  to  admire.  But  come!  Because  you  are 
chaste,  for  which  I  am  sure  I  pay  you  my  respects,  that 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  blind.  Look  at  her, 
look  at  the  delicious  nose  of  her,  look  at  her  cheek,  look 
at  her  ear,  look  at  her  hand  and  wrist— look  at  the 
whole  baggage  from  heels  to  crown,  and  tell  me  if  she 
would  n't  melt  on  a  man's  tongue." 

As  Ballantrae  spoke,  half  jesting,  half  enthusiastic, 
Balmile  was  constrained  to  do  as  he  was  bidden.  He 
looked  at  the  woman,  admired  her  excellences,  and 
was  at  the  same  time  ashamed  for  himself  and  his 
companion.  So  it  befell  that  when  Marie-Madeleine 
raised  her  eyes,  she  met  those  of  the  subject  of  her 
contemplations  fixed  directly  on  herself  with  a  look 

380 


THE  WINE-SELLER'S  WIFE 

that  is  unmistakable,  the  look  of  a  person  measuring 
and  valuing  another,— and,  to  clench  the  false  impres- 
sion, that  his  glance  was  instantly  and  guiltily  with- 
drawn. The  blood  beat  back  upon  her  heart  and  leaped 
again;  her  obscure  thoughts  flashed  clear  before  her; 
she  flew  in  fancy  straight  to  his  arms  like  a  wanton, 
and  fled  again  on  the  instant  like  a  nymph.  And  at 
that  moment  there  chanced  an  interruption,  which  not 
only  spared  her  embarrassment,  but  set  the  last  con- 
secration on  her  now  articulate  love. 

Into  the  wine-shop  there  came  a  French  gentleman, 
arrayed  in  the  last  refinement  of  the  fashion,  though  a 
little  tumbled  by  his  passage  in  the  wind.  It  was  to 
be  judged  he  had  come  from  the  same  formal  gathering 
at  which  the  others  had  preceded  him;  and  perhaps 
that  he  had  gone  there  in  the  hope  to  meet  with  them, 
for  he  came  up  to  Ballantrae  with  unceremonious 
eagerness. 

"At  last,  here  you  are!"  he  cried  in  French.  "I 
thought  I  was  to  miss  you  altogether." 

The  Scotsmen  rose,  and  Ballantrae,  after  the  first 
greetings,  laid  his  hand  on  his  companion's  shoulder. 

"  My  Lord,"  said  he,  "  allow  me  to  present  to  you  one 
of  my  best  friends  and  one  of  our  best  soldiers,  the  Lord 
Viscount  Gladsmuir." 

The  two  bowed  with  the  elaborate  elegance  of  the 
period. 

*'  Monseigneur"  said  Balmile,  '*je  n' at  pas  la  preten- 
tion de  m  'affubler  d'un  titre  que  la  mauvaise  fortune  de 
mon  rot  ne  me  permet  pas  de  porter  comme  il  sied.  Je 
m  'appelle,  pour  vous  servir,  Blair  de  Balmile  tout  court. " 
("  My  Lord,  I  have  not  the  effrontery  to  cumber  myself 

381 


THE   YOUNG   CHEVALIER 

with  a  title  which  the  ill  fortunes  of  my  king  will  not 
suffer  me  to  bear  the  way  it  should  be.  I  call  myself, 
at  your  service,  plain  Blair  of  Balmile.") 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  ou  Monsieur  Bier'  de  Balmail/' 
replied  the  new-comer,  "  le  nom  n'y  fait  rien,  etVon 
connait  vos  beaux  fails.''  (''The  name  matters  no- 
thing; your  gallant  actions  are  known.") 

A  few  more  ceremonies,  and  these  three,  sitting  down 
together  to  the  table,  called  for  wine.  It  was  the  hap- 
piness of  Marie-Madeleine  to  wait  unobserved  upon  the 
prince  of  her  dfisires.  She  poured  the  wine,  he  drank 
of  it;  and  that  link  between  them  seemed  to  her,  for 
the  moment,  close  as  a  caress.  Though  they  lowered 
their  tones,  she  surprised  great  names  passing  in  their 
conversation,  names  of  kings,  the  names  of  De  Gesvre 
and  Belle-Isle;  and  the  man  who  dealt  in  these  high 
matters,  and  she  who  was  now  coupled  with  him  in 
her  own  thoughts,  seemed  to  swim  in  mid-air  in  a 
transfiguration.  Love  is  a  crude  core,  but  it  has  singu- 
lar and  far-reaching  fringes ;  in  that  passionate  attraction 
for  the  stranger  that  now  swayed  and  mastered  her,  his 
harsh  incomprehensible  language,  and  these  names  of 
grandees  in  his  talk,  were  each  an  element. 

The  Frenchman  stayed  not  long,  but  it  was  plain  he 
left  behind  him  matter  of  much  interest  to  his  com- 
panions; they  spoke  together  earnestly,  their  heads 
down,  the  woman  of  the  wine-shop  totally  forgotten ; 
and  they  were  still  so  occupied  when  Paradou  returned. 

This  man's  love  was  unsleeping.  The  even  bluster 
of  the  mistral,  with  which  he  had  been  combating  some 
hours,  had  not  suspended,  though  it  had  embittered, 
that  predominant  passion.     His  first  look  was  for  his 

382 


THE  WINE-SELLER'S  WIFE 

wife,  a  look  of  hope  and  suspicion,  menace  and  humil- 
ity and  love,  that  made  the  over-blooming  brute  appear 
for  the  moment  almost  beautiful.  She  returned  his 
glance,  at  first  as  though  she  knew  him  not,  then  with 
a  swiftly  waxing  coldness  of  intent;  and  at  last,  with- 
out changing  their  direction,  she  had  closed  her  eyes. 

There  passed  across  her  mind  during  that  period  much 
that  Paradou  could  not  have  understood  had  it  been  told 
to  him  in  words :  chiefly  the  sense  of  an  enlightening 
contrast  betwixt  the  man  who  talked  of  kings  and  the 
man  who  kept  a  wine-shop,  betwixt  the  love  she  yearned 
for  and  that  to  which  she  had  been  long  exposed  like 
a  victim  bound  upon  the  altar.  There  swelled  upon 
her,  swifter  than  the  Rhone,  a  tide  of  abhorrence  and 
disgust.  She  had  succumbed  to  the  monster,  humbling 
herself  below  animals;  and  now  she  loved  a  hero, 
aspiring  to  the  semi-divine.  It  was  in  the  pang  of 
that  humiliating  thought  that  she  had  closed  her  eyes. 

Paradou— quick,  as  beasts  are  quick,  to  translate 
silence— felt  the  insult  through  his  blood;  his  inarticu- 
late soul  bellowed  within  him  for  revenge.  He  glanced 
about  the  shop.  He  saw  the  two  indifferent  gentlemen 
deep  in  talk,  and  passed  them  over:  his  fancy  flying 
not  so  high.  There  was  but  one  other  present,  a  coun- 
try lout  who  stood  swallowing  his  wine,  equally  unob- 
served by  all  and  unobserving;  to  him  he  dealt  a  glance 
of  murderous  suspicion,  and  turned  direct  upon  his 
wife.  The  wine-shop  had  lain  hitherto,  a  space  of 
shelter,  the  scene  of  a  few  ceremonial  passages  and 
some  whispered  conversation,  in  the  howling  river  of 
the  wind ;  the  clock  had  not  yet  ticked  a  score  of  times 
since  Paradou's  appearance;  and  now,  as  he  suddenly 

383 


THE   YOUNG   CHEVALIER 

gave  tongue,  it  seemed  as  though  the  mistral  had  en- 
tered at  his  heels. 

"  What  ails  you,  woman  ?  "  he  cried,  smiting  on  the 
counter. 

"  Nothing  ails  me,"  she  replied.  It  was  strange;  but 
she  spoke  and  stood  at  that  moment  like  a  lady  of  de- 
gree, drawn  upward  by  her  aspirations. 

"  You  speak  to  me,  by  God,  as  though  you  scorned 
me!  "  cried  the  husband. 

The  man's  passion  was  always  formidable;  she  had 
often  looked  on  upon  its  violence  with  a  thrill— it  had 
been  one  ingredient  in  her  fascination;  and  she  was 
now  surprised  to  behold  him,  as  from  afar  off,  gesticu- 
lating but  impotent.  His  fury  might  be  dangerous  like 
a  torrent  or  a  gust  of  wind,  but  it  was  inhuman;  it 
might  be  feared  or  braved,  it  should  never  be  respected. 
And  with  that  there  came  in  her  a  sudden  glow  of 
courage  and  that  readiness  to  die  which  attends  so 
closely  upon  all  strong  passions. 

"  I  do  scorn  you,"  she  said. 

"  What  is  that?  "  he  cried. 

"I  scorn  you,"  she  repeated,  smiling. 

"  You  love  another  man!  "  said  he. 

"With  all  my  soul,"  was  her  reply. 

The  wine-seller  roared  aloud  so  that  the  house  rang 
and  shook  with  it. 

"  Is  this  the ?  "  he  cried,  using  a  foul  word,  com- 
mon in  the  South ;  and  he  seized  the  young  countryman 
and  dashed  him  to  the  ground.  There  he  lay  for  the 
least  interval  of  time  insensible;  thence  fled  from  the 
house,  the  most  terrified  person  in  the  county.  The 
heavy  measure  had  escaped  from  his  hands,  splashing 

384 


THE  WINE-SELLER'S  WIFE 

the  wine  high  upon  the  wall.  Paradou  caught  it. 
"  And  you  ?  "  he  roared  to  his  wife,  giving  her  the  same 
name  in  the  feminine,  and  he  aimed  at  her  the  deadly 
missile.  She  expected  it,  motionless,  with  radiant 
eyes. 

But  before  it  sped,  Paradou  was  met  by  another  ad- 
versary, and  the  unconscious  rivals  stood  confronted. 
It  was  hard  to  say  at  that  moment  which  appeared  the 
more  formidable.  In  Paradou,  the  whole  muddy  and 
truculent  depths  of  the  half-man  were  stirred  to  frenzy ; 
the  lust  of  destruction  raged  in  him ;  there  was  not  a 
feature  in  his  face  but  it  talked  murder.  Balmile  had 
dropped  his  cloak:  he  shone  out  at  once  in  his  finery, 
and  stood  to  his  full  stature;  girt  in  mind  and  body; 
all  his  resources,  all  his  temper,  perfectly  in  command; 
in  his  face  the  light  of  battle.  Neither  spoke;  there 
was  no  blow  nor  threat  of  one;  it  was  war  reduced  to 
its  last  element,  the  spiritual ;  and  the  huge  wine-seller 
slowly  lowered  his  weapon.  Balmile  was  a  noble,  he 
a  commoner;  Balmile  exulted  in  an  honourable  cause. 
Paradou  already  perhaps  began  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
violence.  Of  a  sudden,  at  least,  the  tortured  brute 
turned  and  fled  from  the  shop,  in  the  footsteps  of  his 
former  victim,  to  whose  continued  flight  his  reappear- 
ance  added  wings. 

So  soon  as  Balmile  appeared  between  her  husband 
and  herself,  Marie-Madeleine  transferred  to  him  her 
eyes.  It  might  be  her  last  moment,  and  she  fed  upon 
that  face ;  reading  there  inimitable  courage  and  illimit- 
able valour  to  protect.  And  when  the  momentary 
peril  was  gone  by,  and  the  champion  turned  a  little 
awkwardly  towards  her  whom  he  had  rescued,  it  was 

385 


THE   YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

to  meet,  and  quail  before,  a  gaze  of  admiration  more 
distinct  than  words.  He  bowed,  he  stammered,  his 
words  failed  him ;  he  who  had  crossed  the  floor  a  mo- 
ment ago,  like  a  young  god,  to  smite,  returned  like  one 
discomfited:  got  somehow  to  his  place  by  the  table, 
muffled  himself  again  in  his  discarded  cloak,  and  for  a 
last  touch  of  the  ridiculous,  seeking  for  anything  to 
restore  his  countenance,  drank  of  the  wine  before  him, 
deep  as  a  porter  after  a  heavy  lift.  It  was  little  wonder 
if  Ballantrae,  reading  the  scene  with  malevolent  eyes, 
laughed  out  loud  and  brief,  and  drank  with  raised  glass, 
"To  the  champion  of  the  Fair." 

Marie-Madeleine  stood  in  her  old  place  within  the 
counter;  she  disdained  the  mocking  laughter;  it  fell  on 
her  ears,  but  it  did  not  reach  her  spirit.  For  her,  the 
world  of  living  persons  was  all  resumed  again  into  one 
pair,  as  in  the  days  of  Eden ;  there  was  but  the  one  end 
in  life,  the  one  hope  before  her,  the  one  thing  needful^ 
the  one  thing  possible,— to  be  his. 


=$86 


THE  PRINCE 

That  same  night  there  was  in  the  city  of  Avignon  a 
young  man  in  distress  of  mind.  Now  he  sat,  now 
walked  in  a  high  apartment,  full  of  draughts  and  shad- 
ows. A  single  candle  made  the  darkness  visible;  and 
the  light  scarce  sufficed  to  show  upon  the  wall,  where 
they  had  been  recently  and  rudely  nailed,  a  few  minia- 
tures and  a  copper  medal  of  the  young  man's  head. 
The  same  was  being  sold  that  year  in  London  to  ad- 
miring thousands.  The  original  was  fair;  he  had 
beautiful  brown  eyes,  a  beautiful  bright  open  face;  a 
little  feminine,  a  little  hard,  a  little  weak;  still  full  of 
the  light  of  youth,  but  already  beginning  to  be  vul- 
garised ;  a  sordid  bloom  come  upon  it,  the  lines  coars- 
ened with  a  touch  of  puffiness.  He  was  dressed,  as 
for  a  gala,  in  peach-colour  and  silver;  his  breast  sparkled 
with  stars  and  was  bright  with  ribbons;  for  he  had 
held  a  levee  in  the  afternoon  and  received  a  distinguished 
personage  incognito.  Now  he  sat  with  a  bowed  head, 
now  walked  precipitately  to  and  fro,  now  went  and 
gazed  from  the  uncurtained  window,  where  the  wind 
was  still  blowing,  and  the  lights  winked  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

The  bells  of  Avignon  rose  into  song  as  he  was  gazing; 
387 


THE  YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

and  the  high  notes  and  the  deep  tossed  and  drowned, 
boomed  suddenly  near  or  were  suddenly  swallowed  up, 
in  the  current  of  the  mistral.  Tears  sprang  in  the  pale 
blue  eyes;  the  expression  of  his  face  was  changed  to 
that  of  a  more  active  misery;  it  seemed  as  if  the  voices 
of  the  bells  reached,  and  touched  and  pained  him,  in  a 
waste  of  vacancy  where  even  pain  was  welcome. 
Outside  in  the  night  they  continued  to  sound  on,  swell- 
ing and  fainting;  and  the  listener  heard  in  his  memory, 
as  it  were  their  harmonies,  joy-bells  clashing  in  a 
Northern  city,  and  the  acclamations  of  a  multitude,  the 
cries  of  battle,  the  gross  voices  of  cannon,  the  stridor 
of  an  animated  life.  And  then  all  died  away,  and  he 
stood  face  to  face  with  himself  in  the  waste  of  vacancy, 
and  a  horror  came  upon  his  mind,  and  a  faintness  on 
his  brain,  such  as  seizes  men  upon  the  brink  of  cliffs. 

On  the  table,  by  the  side  of  the  candle,  stood  a  tray 
of  glasses,  a  bottle,  and  a  silver  bell.  He  went  thither 
swiftly,  then  his  hand  lowered  first  above  the  bell, 
then  settled  on  the  bottle.  Slowly  he  filled  a  glass, 
slowly  drank  it  out;  and,  as  a  tide  of  animal  warmth 
recomforted  the  recesses  of  his  nature,  stood  there 
smiling  at  himself.  He  remembered  he  was  young; 
the  funeral  curtains  rose,  and  he  saw  his  life  shine  and 
broaden  and  flow  out  majestically,  like  a  river  sunward. 
The  smile  still  on  his  lips,  he  lit  a  second  candle,  and  a 
third ;  a  fire  stood  ready  built  in  a  chimney,  he  lit  that 
also;  and  the  fir-cones  and  the  gnarled  olive  billets  were 
swift  to  break  in  flame  and  to  crackle  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  room  brightened  and  enlarged  about  him  like 
his  hopes.  To  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  he  went,  his  hands 
lightly  clasped,  his  breath  deeply  and  pleasurably  taken. 

388 


THE    PRINCE 

Victory  walked  with  him ;  he  marched  to  crowns  and 
empires  among  shouting  followers ;  glory  was  his  dress. 
And  presently  again  the  shadows  closed  upon  the  soli- 
tary. Under  the  gilt  of  flame  and  candle-light,  the 
stone  walls  of  the  apartment  showed  down  bare  and 
cold;  behind  the  depicted  triumph  loomed  up  the  actual 
failure:  defeat,  the  long  distress  of  the  flight,  exile, 
despair,  broken  followers,  mourning  faces,  empty 
pockets,  friends  estranged.  The  memory  of  his  father 
rose  in  his  mind:  he,  too,  estranged  and  defied;  despair 
sharpened  into  wrath.  There  was  one  who  had  led 
armies  in  the  field,  who  had  staked  his  life  upon  the 
family  enterprise,  a  man  of  action  and  experience,  of 
the  open  air,  the  camp,  the  court,  the  council-room;  and 
he  was  to  accept  direction  from  an  old,  pompous  gen- 
tleman in  a  home  in  Italy,  and  buzzed  about  by  priests? 
A  pretty  king,  if  he  had  not  a  martial  son  to  lean  upon! 
A  king  at  all  ? 

"  There  was  a  weaver  (of  all  people)  joined  me  at  St. 
Ninians;  he  was  more  of  a  man  than  my  papa!  "  he 
thought.  "  I  saw  him  lie  doubled  in  his  blood  and  a 
grenadier  below  him— and  he  died  for  my  papa!  All 
died  for  him,  or  risked  the  dying,  and  I  lay  for  him  all 
those  months  in  the  rain  and  skulked  in  heather  like  a 
fox;  and  now  he  writes  me  his  advice!  calls  me  Car- 
luccio— me,  the  man  of  the  house,  the  only  king  in 
that  king's  race!"  He  ground  his  teeth.  "The  only 
king  in  Europe!  Who  else  ?  Who  has  done  and  suf- 
fered except  me?  who  has  lain  and  run  and  hidden 
with  his  faithful  subjects,  like  a  second  Bruce  ?  Not 
my  accursed  cousin,  Louis  of  France,  at  least,  the  lewd 
effeminate  traitor!  "    And  filling  the  glass  to  the  brim, 

389 


THE  YOUNG  CHEVALIER 

he  drank  a  king's  damnation.  Ah,  if  he  had  the  power 
of  Louis,  what  a  king  were  here! 

The  minutes  followed  each  other  into  the  past,  and 
still  he  persevered  in  this  debilitating  cycle  of  emotions, 
still  fed  the  fire  of  his  excitement  with  driblets  of 
Rhine  wine;  a  boy  at  odds  with  life,  a  boy  with  a 
spark  of  the  heroic,  which  he  was  now  burning  out 
and  drowning  in  futile  reverie  and  solitary  excess. 

From  two  rooms  beyond,  the  sudden  sound  of  a 
raised  voice  attracted  him. 

"By  .  .  . 


390 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

The  first  suggestion  for  the  story  of  which  the  above  is  the  opening 
was  received  by  the  author  from  Mr.  Andrew  Lang.  It  is  mentioned  in 
Vailima  Letters  (p.  113  of  this  edition)  under  date  January  3,  1892. 
Writing  of  the  subject  again  on  March  25  of  the  same  year  (p.  133),  Mr. 
Stevenson  speculates  on  the  title  to  be  chosen  and  the  turn  the  plot  is 
to  take;  and  later  again  (towards  the  end  of  May,  pp.  150,151)  an- 
nounces that  he  has  written  the  first  "prologuial  episode,"  that,  namely, 
which  the  reader  has  now  before  him.  "There  are  only  four  charac- 
ters," he  observes:  "Francis  Blair  of  Balmile  (Jacobite  Lord  Gladsmuir), 
my  hero ;  the  Master  of  Ballantrae ;  Paradou,  a  wine-seller  of  Avignon ; 
Marie-Madeleine,  his  wife.  These  last  two  I  am  now  done  with,  and  I 
think  they  are  successful,  and  I  hope  I  have  Balmile  on  his  feet;  and 
the  style  seems  to  be  found.  It  is  a  little  charged  and  violent;  sins  on 
the  side  of  violence ;  but  I  think  will  carry  the  tale.  I  think  it  is  a 
good  idea  so  to  introduce  my  hero,  being  made  love  to  by  an  episodic 
woman."  If  the  reader  will  turn  to  the  passage,  he  will  find  more  about 
the  intended  developments  of  the  story,  which  was  to  hinge  on  the  rescue 
by  the  Prince  of  a  young  lady  from  a  fire  at  an  inn,  and  to  bring  back 
upon  the  scene  not  only  the  Master  of  Ballantrae,  but  one  of  the  author's 
and  his  readers'  favourite  characters,  Alan  Breck.  Mr.  Lang  has  been 
good  enough  to  fiimish  the  following  interesting  notes  as  to  its  origin : 

"The  novel  of  The  Young  Chevalier"  writes  Mr.  Lang,  "of  which 
only  the  fragment  here  given  exists,  was  based  on  a  suggestion  of  my 
own.  But  it  is  plain  that  Mr.  Stevenson's  purpose  differed  widely  from 
my  crude  idea.  In  reading  the  curious  Tales  of  the  Century  (1847),  by 
'  John  Sobieski  Holberg  Stuart  and  Charles  Edward  Stuart,'  1  had  been 
struck  by  a  long  essay  on  Prince  Charies's  mysterious  incognito.  Expelled 
from  France  after  the  treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  His  Royal  Highness,  in  De- 
cember, 1 748,  sought  refuge  in  the  papal  city  of  Avignon,  whence,  an- 

39» 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

Tioyed  by  English  remonstrances  with  the  Vatican,  he  vanished  in  the  last 
days  of  February,  1 749.  The  Jacobite  account  of  his  secret  adventures  is 
given  in  a  little  romance,  purporting  to  be  a  'Letter  from  Henry  Goring,' 
his  equerry,  brother  of  Sir  Charles  Goring.  I  had  a  transcript  made  from  this 
rather  scarce  old  pamphlet,  and  sent  it  to  Mr.  Stevenson,  in  Samoa.  Ac- 
cording to  the  pamphlet  (which  is  perfectly  untrustworthy),  a  mysterious 
stranger,  probably  meant  for  the  Earl  Marischal,  came  to  Avignon.  There 
came,  too,  an  equally  mysterious  Scottish  exile.  Charles  eloped  in  com- 
pany with  Henry  Goring  (which  is  true),  joined  the  stranger,  travelled 
to  a  place  near  Lyons,  and  thence  to  Strasbourg,  which  is  probable.  Here 
he  rescued  from  a  fire  a  lovely  girl,  travelling  alone,  and  disdained  to  profit 
by  her  sudden  passion  for  Me  Comte  d'Espoir,'  his  travelling-name. 
Moving  into  Germany,  he  was  attacked  by  assassins,  headed  by  the 
second  mysterious  stranger,  a  Scottish  spy;  he  performs  prodigies  of 
valour.  He  then  visits  foreign  courts,  Berlin  being  indicated,  and  wins 
the  heart  of  a  lady,  probably  the  Princess  Radziwill,  whom  he  is  to  marry 
when  his  prospects  improve.  All  or  much  of  this  is  false.  Charies  really 
visited  Paris,  by  way  of  Dijon,  and  Mme.  de  Talmont ;  thence  he  went 
to  Venice.  But  the  stories  about  Berlin  and  the  Polish  marriage  were 
current  at  the  time  among  bewildered  diplomatists.! 

"My  idea  was  to  make  the  narrator  a  young  Scottish  Jacobite  at 
Avignon.  He  was  to  be  sent  by  Charies  to  seek  an  actual  hidden  treas- 
ure—the fatal  gold  of  the  hoard  buried  at  Loch  Arkaig  a  few  days  after 
CuUoden.  He  was  to  be  a  lover  of  Miss  Clementina  Walkinshaw,  who 
later  played  the  part  of  Beatrix  Esmond  to  the  Prince. 

"  Mr.  Stevenson  liked  something  in  the  notion,  to  which  he  refers  in 
his  Vailima  Letters.  He  told  me  that  Alan  Breck  and  the  Master  of 
Ballantrae  were  to  appear  in  the  tale.  I  sent  him  such  books  about  Avignon 
as  I  could  collect,  and  he  also  made  inquiries  about  Mandrin,  the  famous 
French  brigand.  Shortly  before  his  death  I  sent  him  transcripts  of  the 
unpublished  letters  of  his  old  friend,  James  More  Macgregor,  and  of  Pickle 
the  Spy,  from  the  Pelham  mss.  in  the  British  Museum.  But  these,  1  think, 
arrived  too  late  for  his  perusal.  In  Pickle  he  would  have  found  some  one 
not  very  unlike  his  Ballantrae.  The  fragment,  as  it  stands,  looks  as  if  the 
Scottish  assassin  and  the  other  mysterious  stranger  were  not  to  appear, 
or  not  so  early  as  one  had  supposed.  The  beautiful  woman  of  the  inn 
and  her  surly  husband  (Mandrin?)  were  inventions  of  his  own.     Other 

1  The  real  facts,  as  far  as  known,  are  given  in  Pickle  the  Spy.—[X.  L.] 

392 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

projects  superseded  his  interest  in  this  tale,  and  deprived  us  of  a  fresh 
view  of  Alan  Breck.  His  dates,  as  indicated  in  the  fragment,  are  not 
exact ;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  Charles's  house  at  Avignon 
(that  of  the  De  Rochefort  family)  was  dismantled  and  comfortless,  as  here 
represented. 

"  Mr.  Stevenson  made,  as  was  his  habit,  a  list  of  chapter  headings, 
which  I  unluckily  did  not  keep.  One,  I  remember,  was  '  Ballantrae  to 
the  Rescue,'  of  whom  or  of  what  did  not  appear.  It  is  impossible  to 
guess  how  the  story  would  have  finally  shaped  itself  in  his  fancy.  One 
naturally  regrets  what  we  have  lost,  however  great  the  compensation  in 
the  works  which  took  the  place  of  the  sketch.  Our  Prince  Charles  of 
romance  must  remain  the  Prince  of  IVaverley  and  the  King  of  Red- 
gauntlet.  No  other  hand  now  can  paint  him  in  the  adventurous  and 
mysterious  years  of  1 749-59.  Often,  since  Mr.  Stevenson's  death,  in 
reading  Jacobite  mss.  unknown  to  me  or  to  any  one  when  the  story  was 
planned,  I  have  thought,  'He  could  have  done  something  with  this,'  or 
^This  would  have  interested  him.'    Eheu!  " 


393 


HEATHERCAT 
A  FRAGMENT 


Nov  published  for  the  first  tim$ 


CONTENTS 

Part  I 

THE  KILLING-TIME  page 

I    Traquairs  of  Montroymont 399 

II  Francie 405 

III  The  Hill-End  of  Drumlowe 420 

Editorial  Note 426 


HEATHERCAT 


PART  I:   THE  KILLING-TIME 


TRAaUAIRS  OF  MONTROYMONT 

THE  period  of  this  tale  is  in  the  heat  of  the  killing- 
time  ;  the  scene  laid  for  the  most  part  in  solitary 
hills  and  morasses,  haunted  only  by  the  so-called  Moun- 
tain Wanderers,  the  dragoons  that  came  in  chase  of 
them,  the  women  that  wept  on  their  dead  bodies,  and 
the  wild  birds  of  the  moorland  that  have  cried  there 
since  the  beginning.  It  is  a  land  of  many  rain-clouds ; 
a  land  of  much  mute  history,  written  there  in  prehis- 
toric symbols.  Strange  green  raths  are  to  be  seen 
commonly  in  the  country,  above  all  by  the  kirkyards; 
barrows  of  the  dead,  standing  stones ;  beside  these,  the 
faint,  durable  footprints  and  handmarks  of  the  Roman ; 
and  an  antiquity  older  perhaps  than  any,  and  still  living 
and  active— a  complete  Celtic  nomenclature  and  a 
scarce-mingled  Celtic  population.  These  rugged  and 
grey  hills  were  once  included  in  the  boundaries  of  the 
Caledonian  Forest.     Merlin  sat  here  below  his  apple- 

399 


HEATHERCAT 

tree  and  lamented  Gwendolen ;  here  spoke  with  Kentu 
gern;  here  fell  into  his  enchanted  trance.  And  the 
legend  of  his  slumber  seems  to  body  forth  the  story  of 
that  Celtic  race,  deprived  for  so  many  centuries  of  their 
authentic  speech,  surviving  with  their  ancestral  inheri- 
tance of  melancholy  perversity  and  patient,  unfortunate 
courage. 

The  Traquairs  of  Montroymont  (Mons  Romanus,  as 
the  erudite  expound  it)  had  long  held  their  seat  about 
the  head  waters  of  the  Dule  and  in  the  back  parts  of 
the  moorland  parish  of  Balweary.  For  two  hundred 
years  they  had  enjoyed  in  these  upland  quarters  a  cer- 
tain decency  (almost  to  be  named  distinction)  of  repute; 
and  the  annals  of  their  house,  or  what  is  remembered 
of  them,  were  obscure  and  bloody.  Ninian  Traquair 
was  "  cruallie  slochtered  "  by  the  Crozers  at  the  kirk- 
door  of  Balweary,  anno  1482.  Francis  killed  Simon 
Ruthven  of  Drumshoreland,  anno  1540;  bought  letters 
of  slayers  at  the  widow  and  heir,  and,  by  a  barbarous 
form  of  compounding,  married  (without  tocher) 
Simon's  daughter  Grizzel,  which  is  the  way  the  Tra- 
quairs and  Ruthvens  came  first  to  an  intermarriage. 
About  the  last  Traquair  and  Ruthven  marriage,  it  is  the 
business  of  this  book,  among  many  other  things,  to  tell. 

The  Traquairs  were  always  strong  for  the  Covenant; 
for  the  King  also,  but  the  Covenant  first;  and  it  began 
to  be  ill  days  for  Montroymont  when  the  Bishops  came 
in  and  the  dragoons  at  the  heels  of  them.  Ninian  (then 
laird)  was  an  anxious  husband  of  himself  and  the  prop- 
erty, as  the  times  required,  and  it  may  be  said  of  him 
that  he  lost  both.  He  was  heavily  suspected  of  the 
Pentland  Hills  rebellion.     When  it  came  the  length  of 

400 


TRAQUAIRS  OF  MONTROYMONT 

Bothwell  Brig,  he  stood  his  trial  before  the  Secret 
Council,  and  was  convicted  of  talking  to  some  insur- 
gents by  the  wayside,  the  subject  of  the  conversation 
not  very  clearly  appearing,  and  of  the  reset  and  main- 
tenance of  one  Gale,  a  gardener-man,  who  was  seen 
before  Bothwell  with  a  musket,  and  afterwards,  for  a 
continuance  of  months,  delved  the  garden  at  Montroy- 
mont.  Matters  went  very  ill  with  Ninian  at  the  Coun- 
cil ;  some  of  the  lords  were  clear  for  treason ;  and  even 
the  boot  was  talked  of.  But  he  was  spared  that  tor- 
ture; and  at  last,  having  pretty  good  friendship  among 
great  men,  he  came  off  with  a  fine  of  seven  thousand 
marks,  that  caused  the  estate  to  groan.  In  this  case, 
as  in  so  many  others,  it  was  the  wife  that  made  the 
trouble.  She  was  a  great  keeper  of  conventicles; 
would  ride  ten  miles  to  one,  and  when  she  was  fined, 
rejoiced  greatly  to  suffer  for  the  Kirk;  but  it  was  rather 
her  husband  that  suffered.  She  had  their  only  son, 
Francis,  baptised  privately  by  the  hands  of  Mr.  Kidd; 
there  was  that  much  the  more  to  pay  for!  She  could 
neither  be  driven  nor  wiled  into  the  parish  kirk ;  as  for 
taking  the  sacrament  at  the  hands  of  any  Episcopalian 
curate,  and  tenfold  more  at  those  of  Curate  Haddo, 
there  was  nothing  further  from  her  purposes;  and 
Montroymont  had  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  month 
by  month  and  year  by  year.  Once,  indeed,  the  little 
lady  was  cast  in  prison,  and  the  laird,  worthy,  heavy, 
uninterested  man,  had  to  ride  up  and  take  her  place; 
from  which  he  was  not  discharged  under  nine  months 
and  a  sharp  fine.  It  scarce  seemed  she  had  any  grati- 
tude to  him ;  she  came  out  of  jail  herself,  and  plunged 
immediately  deeper  in  conventicles,  resetting  recusants, 

401 


HEATHERCAT 

and  all  her  old,  expensive  folly,  only  with  greater  vigour 
and  openness,  because  Montroymont  was  safe  in  the 
Tolbooth  and  she  had  no  witness  to  consider.  When 
he  was  liberated  and  came  back,  with  his  fingers  singed, 
in  December,  1680,  and  late  in  the  black  night,  my  lady 
was  from  home.  He  came  into  the  house  at  his  alight- 
ing, with  a  riding-rod  yet  in  his  hand ;  and,  on  the  ser- 
vant-maid telling  him,  caught  her  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck,  beat  her  violently,  flung  her  down  in  the  passage- 
way, and  went  up-stairs  to  his  bed  fasting  and  with- 
out a  light.  It  was  three  in  the  morning  when  my  lady 
returned  from  that  conventicle,  and,  hearing  of  the 
assault  (because  the  maid  had  sat  up  for  her,  weeping), 
went  to  their  common  chamber  with  a  lantern  in  hand 
and  stamping  with  her  shoes  so  as  to  wake  the  dead; 
it  was  supposed,  by  those  that  heard  her,  from  a  de- 
sign to  have  it  out  with  the  goodman  at  once.  The 
house-servants  gathered  on  the  stair,  because  it  was  a 
main  interest  with  them  to  know  which  of  these  two 
was  the  better  horse;  and  for  the  space  of  two  hours 
they  were  heard  to  go  at  the  matter,  hammer  and  tongs. 
Montroymont  alleged  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  possi- 
bilities; it  was  no  longer  within  his  power  to  pay  the 
annual  rents;  she  had  served  him  basely  by  keeping 
conventicles  while  he  lay  in  prison  for  her  sake;  his 
friends  were  weary,  and  there  was  nothing  else  before 
him  but  the  entire  loss  of  the  family  lands,  and  to  begin 
life  again  by  the  wayside  as  a  common  beggar.  She 
took  him  up  very  sharp  and  high :  called  upon  him,  if 
he  were  a  Christian  ?  and  which  he  most  considered, 
the  loss  of  a  few  dirty,  miry  glebes,  or  of  his  soul  ? 
Presently  he  was  heard  to  weep,  and  my  lady's  voice 

402 


TRAQUAIRS   OF  MONTROYMONT 

to  go  on  continually  like  a  running  burn,  only  the  words 
indistinguishable;  whereupon  it  was  supposed  a  victory 
for  her  ladyship,  and  the  domestics  took  themselves  to 
bed.  The  next  day  Traquair  appeared  like  a  man  who 
had  gone  under  the  harrows ;  and  his  lady  wife  thence- 
forward continued  in  her  old  course  without  the  least 
deflection. 

Thenceforward  Ninian  went  on  his  way  without 
complaint,  and  suffered  his  wife  to  go  on  hers  without 
remonstrance.  He  still  minded  his  estate,  of  which,  it 
might  be  said,  he  took  daily  a  fresh  farewell,  and 
counted  it  already  lost;  looking  ruefully  on  the  acres 
and  the  graves  of  his  fathers,  on  the  moorlands  where 
the  wild-fowl  consorted,  the  low,  gurgling  pool  of  the 
trout,  and  the  high,  windy  place  of  the  calling  curlews 
—things  that  were  yet  his  for  the  day  and  would  be 
another's  to-morrow;  coming  back  again,  and  sitting 
ciphering  till  the  dusk  at  his  approaching  ruin,  which 
no  device  of  arithmetic  could  postpone  beyond  a  year 
or  two.  He  was  essentially  the  simple  ancient  man, 
the  farmer  and  landholder  j  he  would  have  been  content 
to  watch  the  seasons  come  and  go,  and  his  cattle  in- 
crease, until  the  limit  of  age;  he  would  have  been  con- 
tent at  any  time  to  die,  if  he  could  have  left  the  estates 
undiminished  to  an  heir  male  of  his  ancestors,  that  duty 
standing  first  in  his  instinctive  calendar.  And  now  he 
saw  everywhere  the  image  of  the  new  proprietor  come 
to  meet  him,  and  go  sowing  and  reaping,  or  fowling 
for  his  pleasure  on  the  red  moors,  or  eating  the  very 
gooseberries  in  the  Place  garden ;  and  saw  always,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  figure  of  Francis  go  forth,  a  beggar, 
into  the  broad  world. 

403 


HEATHERCAT 

It  was  in  vain  the  poor  gentleman  sought  to  moder- 
ate ;  took  every  test  and  took  advantage  of  every  indul- 
gence; went  and  drank  with  the  dragoons  in  Balweary ; 
attended  the  communion  and  came  regularly  to  the 
church  to  Curate  Haddo,  with  his  son  beside  him.  The 
mad,  raging,  Presbyterian  zealot  of  a  wife  at  home 
made  all  of  no  avail;  and  indeed  the  house  must  have 
fallen  years  before  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  secret  in- 
dulgence of  the  curate,  who  had  a  great  sympathy  with 
the  laird,  and  winked  hard  at  the  doings  in  Montroy- 
mont.  This  curate  was  a  man  very  ill  reputed  in  the 
country-side,  and  indeed  in  all  Scotland.  "  Infamous 
Haddo  "  is  Shield's  expression.  But  Patrick  Walker  is 
more  copious.  "  Curate  Hall  Haddo,"  says  he,  sub  voce 
Peden,  "  or  Hell  Haddo  as  he  was  more  justly  to  be 
called,  a  pokeful  of  old  condemned  errors  and  the  filthy 
lusts  of  the  flesh,  a  published  whoremonger,  a  common 
gross  drunkard,  continually  and  godlessly  scraping  and 
skirling  on  a  fiddle,  continually  breathing  flames  against 
the  remnant  of  Israel.  But  the  Lord  put  an  end  to  his 
piping,  and  all  these  offences  were  composed  into  one 
bloody  grave."  No  doubt  this  was  written  to  excuse 
his  slaughter;  and  I  have  never  heard  it  claimed  for 
Walker  that  he  was  either  a  just  witness  or  an  indul- 
gent judge.  At  least,  in  a  merely  human  character, 
Haddo  comes  off  not  wholly  amiss  in  the  matter  of 
these  Traquairs :  not  that  he  showed  any  graces  of  the 
Christian,  but  had  a  sort  of  pagan  decency,  which  might 
almost  tempt  one  to  be  concerned  about  his  sudden, 
violent,  and  unprepared  fate. 


404 


II 

FRANCIE 

Francie  was  eleven  years  old,  shy,  secret,  and  rather 
childish  of  his  age,  though  not  backward  in  schooling, 
which  had  been  pushed  on  far  by  a  private  governor, 
one  M'Brair,  a  forfeited  minister  harboured  in  that 
capacity  at  Montroymont.  The  boy,  already  much 
employed  in  secret  by  his  mother,  was  the  most  apt 
hand  conceivable  to  run  upon  a  message,  to  carry  food 
to  lurking  fugitives,  or  to  stand  sentry  on  the  sky-line 
above  a  conventicle.  It  seemed  no  place  on  the  moor- 
lands was  so  naked  but  what  he  would  find  cover 
there;  and  as  he  knew  every  hag,  boulder,  and  heather- 
bush  in  a  circuit  of  seven  miles  about  Montroymont, 
there  was  scarce  any  spot  but  what  he  could  leave  or 
approach  it  unseen.  This  dexterity  had  won  him  a 
reputation  in  that  part  of  the  country;  and  among  the 
many  children  employed  in  these  dangerous  affairs,  he 
passed  under  the  by-name  of  Heathercat. 

How  much  his  father  knew  of  this  employment  might 
be  doubted.  He  took  much  forethought  for  the  boy's 
future,  seeing  he  was  like  to  be  left  so  poorly,  and 
would  sometimes  assist  at  his  lessons,  sighing  heavily, 
yawning  deep,  and  now  and  again  patting  Francie  on 
the  shoulder  if  he  seemed  to  be  doing  ill,  by  way  of  a 

405 


HEATHERCAT 

private,  kind  encouragement.  But  a  great  part  of  the 
day  was  passed  in  aimless  wanderings  with  his  eyes 
sealed,  or  in  his  cabinet  sitting  bemused  over  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  coming  bankruptcy;  and  the  boy  would 
be  absent  a  dozen  times  for  once  that  his  father  would 
observe  it. 

On  the  2nd  of  July,  1682,  the  boy  had  an  errand  from 
his  mother,  which  must  be  kept  private  from  all,  the 
father  included  in  the  first  of  them.  Crossing  the  braes, 
he  hears  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  shoes,  and  claps  down 
incontinent  in  a  hag  by  the  wayside.  And  presently 
he  spied  his  father  come  riding  from  one  direction,  and 
Curate  Haddo  walking  from  another;  and  Montroymont 
leaning  down  from  the  saddle,  and  Haddo  getting  on 
his  toes  (for  he  was  a  little,  ruddy,  bald-pated  man, 
more  like  a  dwarf),  they  greeted  kindly,  and  came  to  a 
halt  within  two  fathoms  of  the  child. 

"Montroymont,"  the  curate  said,  "the  de'il  's  in  't 
but  I  '11  have  to  denunciate  your  leddy  again." 

"  De'il  's  in  't  indeed! "  says  the  laird. 

"Man!  can  ye  no  induce  her  to  come  to  the  kirk  ?  " 
pursues  Haddo;  "  or  to  a  communion  at  the  least  of  it. 
For  the  conventicles,  let  be !  and  the  same  for  yon  solemn 
fule,  M'Brair:  I  can  blink  at  them.  But  she  's  got  to 
come  to  the  kirk,  Montroymont." 

"Dinna  speak  of  it,"  says  the  laird.  "I  can  do  no- 
thing with  her." 

"  Could  n't  ye  try  the  stick  to  her  ?  It  works  wonders 
whiles,"  suggested  Haddo.  "No.?  I  'm  wae  to  hear 
it.     And  I  suppose  ye  ken  where  you  're  going.?  " 

"  Fine !  "  said  Montroymont.  "  Fine  do  I  ken  where : 
Bankrup'cy  and  the  Bass  Rock!  " 

406 


FRANCE 

*  Praise  to  my  bones  that  I  never  married!  "  cried  the 
curate.  "  Well,  it  's  a  grievous  thing  to  me  to  see  an 
auld  house  dung  down  that  was  here  before  Flodden 
Field.     But  naebody  can  say  it  was  with  my  wish." 

"No  more  they  can,  Haddo!  "  says  the  laird.  "A 
good  friend  ye  've  been  to  me,  first  and  last.  I  can 
give  you  that  character  with  a  clear  conscience." 

Whereupon  they  separated,  and  Montroymont  rode 
briskly  down  into  the  Dule  Valley.  But  of  the  curate 
Francie  was  not  to  be  quit  so  easily.  He  went  on  with 
his  little,  brisk  steps  to  the  corner  of  a  dyke,  and  stopped 
and  whistled  and  waved  upon  a  lassie  that  was  herding 
cattle  there.  This  Janet  M'Clour  was  a  big  lass,  being 
taller  than  the  curate;  and  what  made  her  look  the 
more  so,  she  was  kilted  very  high.  It  seemed  for  a 
while  she  would  not  come,  and  Francie  heard  her  call- 
ing Haddo  a  *  daft  auld  fule,"  and  saw  her  running  and 
dodging  him  among  the  whins  and  hags  till  he  was 
fairly  blown.  But  at  the  last  he  gets  a  bottle  from  his 
plaid-neuk  and  holds  it  up  to  her;  whereupon  she  came 
at  once  into  a  composition,  and  the  pair  sat,  drinking  of 
the  bottle,  and  dafFmg  and  laughing  together,  on  a 
mound  of  heather.  The  boy  had  scarce  heard  of  these 
vanities,  or  he  might  have  been  minded  of  a  nymph 
and  satyr,  if  anybody  could  have  taken  long-leggit  Janet 
for  a  nymph.  But  they  seemed  to  be  huge  friends,  he 
thought;  and  was  the  more  surprised,  when  the  curate 
had  taken  his  leave,  to  see  the  lassie  fling  stones  after 
him  with  screeches  of  laughter,  and  Haddo  turn  about 
and  caper,  and  shake  his  staff  at  her,  and  laugh  louder 
than  herself.  A  wonderful  merry  pair,  they  seemed; 
and  when  Francie  crawled  out  of  the  hag,  he  had  a 

407 


HEATHERCAT 

great  deal  to  consider  in  his  mind.  It  was  possible  they 
were  all  fallen  in  error  about  Mr.  Haddo,  he  reflected, 
—having  seen  him  so  tender  with  Montroymont,  and 
so  kind  and  playful  with  the  lass  Janet;  and  he  had  a 
temptation  to  go  out  of  his  road  and  question  her  her- 
self upon  the  matter.  But  he  had  a  strong  spirit  of 
duty  on  him ;  and  plodded  on  instead  over  the  braes 
till  he  came  near  the  House  of  Cairngorm.  There,  in 
a  hollow  place  by  the  burn-side  that  was  shaded  by  some 
birks,  he  was  aware  of  a  barefoot  boy,  perhaps  a  matter 
of  three  years  older  than  himself.  The  two  approached 
with  the  precautions  of  a  pair  of  strange  dogs,  looking 
at  each  other  queerly. 

"It  's  ill  weather  on  the  hills,"  said  the  stranger, 
giving  the  watchword. 

"For  a  season,"  said  Francie,  "but  the  Lord  will 
appear." 

"  Richt,"  said  the  barefoot  boy.   "  Wha*  're  ye  frae  ?  " 

"The  Leddy  Montroymont,"  says  Francie. 

"  Ha'e  then !  "  says  the  stranger,  and  handed  him  a 
folded  paper,  and  they  stood  and  looked  at  each  other 
again.     "  It 's  unco  het,"  said  the  boy. 

"Dooms  het,"  says  Francie. 

"  What  do  they  ca'  ye  ?  "  says  the  other. 

"Francie,"  says  he.  "I  'm  young  Montroymont. 
They  ca'  me  Heathercat." 

"I  *m  Jock  Crozer,"  said  the  boy.  And  there  was 
another  pause,  while  each  rolled  a  stone  under  his  foot. 

"Cast  your  jaiket  and  I  '11  fecht  ye  for  a  bawbee," 
cried  the  elder  boy,  with  sudden  violence,  and  dra- 
matically throwing  back  his  jacket. 

"Na,  I  have  nae  time  the  now,"  said  Francie,  with  a 
408 


FRANCIE 

sharp  thrill  of  alarm,  because  Crozer  was  much  the 
heavier  boy. 

"Ye  're  feard.  Heathercat  indeed!"  said  Crozer, 
for  among  this  infantile  army  of  spies  and  messengers 
the  fame  of  Crozer  had  gone  forth  and  was  resented  by 
his  rivals.     And  with  that  they  separated. 

On  his  way  home  Francie  was  a  good  deal  occupied 
with  the  recollection  of  this  untoward  incident.  The 
challenge  had  been  fairly  offered  and  basely  refused: 
the  tale  would  be  carried  all  over  the  country,  and  the 
lustre  of  the  name  of  Heathercat  be  dimmed.  But  the 
scene  between  Curate  Haddo  and  Janet  M'Clour  had 
also  given  him  much  to  think  of;  and  he  was  still 
puzzling  over  the  case  of  the  curate,  and  why  such  ill 
words  were  said  of  him,  and  why,  if  he  were  so  merry- 
spirited,  he  should  yet  preach  so  dry,  when,  coming 
over  a  know,  whom  should  he  see  but  Janet,  sitting 
with  her  back  to  him,  minding  her  cattle!  He  was 
always  a  great  child  for  secret,  stealthy  ways,  having 
been  employed  by  his  mother  on  errands  when  the  same 
was  necessary;  and  he  came  behind  the  lass  without 
her  hearing. 

"Jennet,"  says  he. 

"  Keep  me !  "  cries  Janet,  springing  up.  "  O,  it 's  you, 
Maister  Francie!     Save  us,  what  a  fricht  ye  gied  me!" 

"Ay,  it 's  me,"  said  Francie.  "I  Ve  been  thinking. 
Jennet;  I  saw  you  and  the  curate  awhile  back—" 

"Brat!  "  cried  Janet,  and  coloured  up  crimson;  and 
the  one  moment  made  as  if  she  would  have  stricken 
him  with  a  ragged  stick  she  had  to  chase  her  bestial 
with,  and  the  next  was  begging  and  praying  that  he 
would  mention  it  to  none.    It  was  "  naebody's  business, 

409 


HEATHERCAT 

whatever,"  she  said;  "  it  would  just  start  a  dash  in  the 
country  " ;  and  there  would  be  nothing  left  for  her  but 
to  drown  herself  in  Dule  Water. 

"  Why  ?  "  says  Francie. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  and  grew  scarlet  again. 

"  And  it  isna  that,  anyway,"  continued  Francie.  "  It 
was  just  that  he  seemed  so  good  to  ye— like  our  Father 
in  Heaven,  I  thought;  and  I  thought  that  mebbe,  per- 
haps, we  had  all  been  wrong  about  him  from  the  first. 
But  I  *ll  have  to  tell  Mr.  M'Brair;  I  'm  under  a  kind  of 
a  bargain  to  him  to  tell  him  all." 

"  Tell  it  to  the  divil  if  ye  like  for  me! "  cried  the  lass. 
"I  've  naething  to  be  ashamed  of.  Tell  M'Brair  to 
mind  his  ain  affairs,"  she  cried  again;  "they  '11  be  hot 
eneugh  for  him,  if  Haddie  likes!  "  And  so  strode  off, 
shoving  her  beasts  before  her,  and  ever  and  again  look- 
ing back  and  crying  angry  words  to  the  boy,  where  he 
stood  mystified. 

By  the  time  he  had  got  home  his  mind  was  made  up 
that  he  would  say  nothing  to  his  mother.  My  Lady 
Montroymont  was  in  the  keeping-room,  reading  a 
godly  book;  she  was  a  wonderful  frail  little  wife  to 
make  so  much  noise  in  the  world  and  be  able  to  steer 
about  that  patient  sheep  her  husband;  her  eyes  were 
like  sloes,  the  fingers  of  her  hands  were  like  tobacco- 
pipe  shanks,  her  mouth  shut  tight  like  a  trap;  and  even 
when  she  was  the  most  serious,  and  still  more  when 
she  was  angry,  there  hung  about  her  face  the  terrifying 
semblance  of  a  smile. 

"  Have  ye  gotten  the  billet,  Francie  ?  "  said  she;  and 
when  he  had  handed  it  over,  and  she  had  read  and 
burned  it,  "  Did  you  see  anybody  ?  "  she  asked- 

410 


FRANCE 

"  I  saw  the  laird, "  said  Francie. 

"  He  dinna  see  you,  though  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 

"De'il  a  fear,"  from  Francie. 

"  Francie ! "  she  cried.  "  What 's  that  I  hear  ?  an  aith  ? 
The  Lord  forgive  me,  have  I  broughten  forth  a  brand 
for  the  burning,  a  fagot  for  hell-fire  ?  " 

"  I  'm  very  sorry,  ma'am,"  said  Francie.  '*I  humbly 
beg  the  Lord's  pardon,  and  yours,  for  my  wickedness." 

"H'm,"  grunted  the  lady.  "Did  ye  see  nobody 
else  ?  " 

"  No,  ma*am,"  said  Francie,  with  the  face  of  an  angel, 
"except  Jock  Crozer,  that  gied  me  the  billet." 

"Jock  Crozer!  "  cried  the  lady.  "  I  'II  Crozer  them! 
Crozers  indeed !  What  next  ?  Are  we  to  repose  the 
lives  of  a  suffering  remnant  in  Crozers  ?  The  whole 
clan  of  them  wants  hanging,  and  if  I  had  my  way  of  it, 
they  wouldna  want  it  long.  Are  you  aware,  sir,  that 
these  Crozers  killed  your  forebear  at  the  kirk-door  ?  " 

"  You  see,  he  was  bigger  'n  me,"  said  Francie. 

"Jock  Crozer,"  continued  the  lady.  "That  *1I  be 
Clement's  son,  the  biggest  thief  and  reiver  in  the  coun- 
try-side. To  trust  a  note  to  him !  But  I  'II  give  the 
benefit  of  my  opinions  to  Lady  Whitecross  when  we 
two  forgather.  Let  her  look  to  herself!  I  have  no 
patience  with  half-hearted  carlines,  that  complies  on 
the  Lord's-day  morning  with  the  kirk,  and  comes  tai- 
gling  the  same  night  to  the  conventicle.  The  one  or  the 
other!  is  what  I  say:  Hell  or  Heaven— Haddie's  abomi- 
nations or  the  pure  word  of  God  dreeping  from  the  lips 
of  Mr.  Arnot, 

"  *  Like  honey  from  the  honeycomb 

That  dreepeth,  sweeter  far.' " 

411 


HEATHERCAT 

My  lady  was  now  fairly  launched,  and  that  upon 
two  congenial  subjects:  the  deficiencies  of  the  Lady 
Whitecross,  and  the  turpitudes  of  the  whole  Crozer 
race— which,  indeed,  had  never  been  conspicuous  for 
respectability.  She  pursued  the  pair  of  them  for  twenty 
minutes  on  the  clock  with  wonderful  animation  and 
detail,  something  of  the  pulpit  manner,  and  the  spirit 
of  one  possessed.  "O  hellish  compliance!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  would  not  suffer  a  complier  to  break  bread 
with  Christian  folk.  Of  all  the  sins  of  this  day  there  is 
not  one  so  God-defying,  so  Christ-humiliating,  as  dam- 
nable compliance  " ;  the  boy  standing  before  her  mean- 
while, and  brokenly  pursuing  other  thoughts,  mainly 
of  Haddo  and  Janet,  and  Jock  Crozer  stripping  off  his 
jacket.  And  yet,  with  all  his  distraction,  it  might  be 
argued  that  he  heard  too  much ;  his  father  and  himself 
being  "compilers  "—that  is  to  say,  attending  the  church 
of  the  parish  as  the  law  required. 

Presently,  the  lady's  passion  beginning  to  decline,  or 
her  flux  of  ill  words  to  be  exhausted,  she  dismissed  her 
audience.  Francie  bowed  low,  left  the  room,  closed 
the  door  behind  him;  and  then  turned  him  about  in 
the  passageway,  and  with  a  low  voice,  but  a  prodigious 
deal  of  sentiment,  repeated  the  name  of  the  evil  one 
twenty  times  over,  to  the  end  of  which,  for  the  greater 
efficacy,  he  tacked  on  *'  damnable  "  and  "  hellish."  Fas 
est  ah  hoste  ^o^m— disrespect  is  made  more  pungent  by 
quotation;  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  he  felt  relieved, 
and  went  up-stairs  into  his  tutor's  chamber  with  a  quiet 
mind.  M'Brair  sat  by  the  cheek  of  the  peat-fire  and 
shivered,  for  he  had  a  quartan  ague,  and  this  was  his 
day.     The  great  nightcap  and  plaid,  the  dark  unshaven 

412 


FRANCIE 

cheeks  of  the  man,  and  the  white,  thin  hands  that  held 
the  plaid  about  his  chittering  body,  made  a  sorrowful 
picture.  But  Francie  knew  and  loved  him;  came 
straight  in,  nestled  close  to  the  refugee,  and  told  his 
story.  M'Brair  had  been  at  the  College  with  Haddo; 
the  Presbytery  had  licensed  both  on  the  same  day ;  and 
at  this  tale,  told  with  so  much  innocency  by  the  boy, 
the  heart  of  the  tutor  was  commoved. 

"  Woe  upon  him!  Woe  upon  that  man!  "  he  cried. 
''  O  the  unfaithful  shepherd!  O  the  hireling  and  apos- 
tate minister!  Make  my  matters  hot  for  me  ?  quo'  she! 
the  shameless  limmer!  And  true  it  is  that  he  could 
repose  me  in  that  nasty,  stinking  hole,  the  Canongate 
Tolbooth,  from  which  your  mother  drew  me  out— the 
Lord  reward  her  for  it!— or  to  that  cold,  unbieldy, 
marine  place  of  the  Bass  Rock,  which,  with  my  delicate 
kist,  would  be  fair  ruin  to  me.  But  I  will  be  valiant  in 
my  Master's  service.  I  have  a  duty  here:  a  duty  to 
my  God,  to  myself,  and  to  Haddo:  in  His  strength,  I 
will  perform  it." 

Then  he  straightly  discharged  Francie  to  repeat  the 
tale,  and  bade  him  in  the  future  to  avert  his  very  eyes 
from  the  doings  of  the  curate.  "  You  must  go  to  his 
place  of  idolatry;  look  upon  him  there! "  says  he,  "but 
nowhere  else.  Avert  your  eyes,  close  your  ears,  pass 
him  by  like  a  three  days'  corp'.  He  is  like  that  damnable 
monster  Basiliscus,  which  defiles— yea,  poisons!— by 
the  sight."  All  which  was  hardly  claratory  to  the  boy's 
mind. 

Presently  Montroymont  came  home,  and  called  up 
the  stairs  to  Francie.  Traquair  was  a  good  shot  and 
swordsman ;  and  it  was  his  pleasure  to  walk  with  his 

4>3 


HEATHERCAT 

son  over  the  braes  of  the  moor-fowl,  or  to  teach  him 
arms  in  the  back  court,  when  they  made  a  mighty 
comely  pair,  the  child  being  so  lean  and  light  and 
active,  and  the  laird  himself  a  man  of  a  manly,  pretty 
stature,  his  hair  (the  periwig  being  laid  aside)  showing 
already  white  with  many  anxieties,  and  his  face  of  an 
even,  flaccid  red.  But  this  day  Francie's  heart  was  not 
in  the  fencing. 

"Sir,"  says  he,  suddenly  lowering  his  point,  "will 
ye  tell  me  a  thing  if  I  was  to  ask  it  ?  " 

"  Ask  away,"  says  the  father. 

"Well,  it  's  this,"  said  Francie:  "Why  do  you  and 
me  comply  if  it 's  so  wicked  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ye  have  the  cant  of  it  too!  "  cries  Montroymont. 
''  But  I  '11  tell  ye  for  all  that.  It  *s  to  try  and  see  if  we 
can  keep  the  rigging  on  this  house,  Francie.  If  she 
had  her  way,  we  would  be  beggar-folk,  and  hold  our 
hands  out  by  the  wayside.  When  ye  hear  her— when 
ye  hear  folk,"  he  corrected  himself  briskly,  "call  me  a 
coward,  and  one  that  betrayed  the  Lord,  and  I  kenna 
what  else,  just  mind  it  was  to  keep  a  bed  to  ye  to  sleep 
in  and  a  bite  for  ye  to  eat.— On  guard!  "  he  cried,  and 
the  lesson  proceeded  again  till  they  were  called  to  supper 

"There  's  another  thing  yet,"  said  Francie,  stopping 
his  father.  "  There  's  another  thing  that  I  am  not  sure 
I  am  very  caring  for.     She— she  sends  me  errands." 

"Obey  her,  then,  as  is  your  bounden  duty,"  said 
Traquair. 

"Ay,  but  wait  till  I  tell  ye,"  says  the  boy.  "If  I 
was  to  see  you  I  was  to  hide." 

Montroymont  sighed.  "  Well,  and  that  *s  good  of 
her  too,"  said  he.     **  The  less  that  I  ken  of  thir  doings 

414 


FRANCIE 

the  better  for  me ;  and  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  just 
to  obey  her,  and  see  and  be  a  good  son  to  her,  the  same 
as  ye  are  to  me,  Francie." 

At  the  tenderness  of  this  expression  the  heart  of 
Francie  swelled  within  his  bosom,  and  his  remorse 
was  poured  out.  "Faither!"  he  cried,  "I  said  'de'il* 
to-day;  many  's  the  time  I  said  it,  and  *  damnable*  too, 
and  '  hellitsh.'  I  ken  they  're  all  right;  they  're  beeblical. 
But  I  didna  say  them  beeblically ;  I  said  them  for  sweir- 
words— that 's  the  truth  of  it." 

"  Hout,  ye  silly  bairn !  "  said  the  father;  "  dinna  do  it 
nae  mair,  and  come  in  by  to  your  supper.*'  And  he 
took  the  boy,  and  drew  him  close  to  him  a  moment, 
as  they  went  through  the  door,  with  something  very 
fond  and  secret,  like  a  caress  between  a  pair  of  lovers. 

The  next  day  M'Brair  was  abroad  in  the  afternoon, 
and  had  a  long  advising  with  Janet  on  the  braes  where 
she  herded  cattle.  What  passed  was  never  wholly 
known;  but  the  lass  wept  bitterly,  and  fell  on  her  knees 
to  him  among  the  whins.  The  same  night,  as  soon  as 
it  was  dark,  he  took  the  road  again  for  Balweary.  In 
the  Kirkton,  where  the  dragoons  quartered,  he  saw 
many  lights,  and  heard  the  noise  of  a  ranting  song  and 
people  laughing  grossly,  which  was  highly  offensive 
to  his  mind.  He  gave  it  the  wider  berth,  keeping 
among  the  fields ;  and  came  down  at  last  by  the  water- 
side, where  the  manse  stands  solitary  between  the  river 
and  the  road.  He  tapped  at  the  back  door,  and  the  old 
woman  called  upon  him  to  come  in,  and  guided  him 
through  the  house  to  the  study,  as  they  still  called  it, 
though  there  was  little  enough  study  there  in  Haddo's 
days,  and  more  song-books  than  theology. 

415 


HEATHERCAT 

"  Here  *s  yin  to  speak  wi'  ye,  Mr.  Haddie!  "  cries  the 
old  wife. 

And  M'Brair,  opening  the  door  and  entering,  found 
the  little,  round,  red  man  seated  in  one  chair  and  his 
feet  upon  another.  A  clear  fire  and  a  tallow  dip  lighted 
him  barely.  He  was  taking  tobacco  in  a  pipe,  and 
smiling  to  himself;  and  a  brandy-bottle  and  glass,  and 
his  fiddle  and  bow,  were  beside  him  on  the  table. 

"  Hech,  Patey  M'Brair,  is  this  you  ?  "  said  he,  a  trifle 
tipsily.  "  Step  in  by,  man,  and  have  a  drop  brandy : 
for  the  stomach's  sake!  Even  the  de'il  can  quote 
Scripture— eh,  Patey  ?  " 

"I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink  with  you,**  replied 
M'Brair.  "I  am  come  upon  my  Master's  errand:  woe 
be  upon  me  if  I  should  anyways  mince  the  same.  Hall 
Haddo,  I  summon  you  to  quit  this  kirk  which  you  en- 
cumber." 

"  Muckle  obleeged !  "  says  Haddo,  winking. 

"  You  and  me  have  been  to  kirk  and  market  together," 
pursued  M'Brair:  "  we  have  had  blessed  seasons  in  the 
kirk,  we  have  sat  in  the  same  teaching-rooms  and  read 
in  the  same  book;  and  I  know  you  still  retain  for  me 
some  carnal  kindness.  It  would  be  my  shame  if  I  de- 
nied it ;  I  live  here  at  your  mercy  and  by  your  favour, 
and  glory  to  acknowledge  it.  You  have  pity  on  my 
wretched  body,  which  is  but  grass,  and  must  soon  be 
trodden  under;  but  O,  Haddo!  how  much  greater  is 
the  yearning  with  which  I  yearn  after  and  pity  your 
immortal  soul!  Come  now,  let  us  reason  together!  I 
drop  all  points  of  controversy,  weighty  though  these 
be;  I  take  your  defaced  and  damnified  kirk  on  your 
own  terms ;  and  I  ask  you.  Are  you  a  worthy  minister  ? 

416 


FRANCIE 

The  communion  season  approaches ;  how  can  you  pro- 
nounce thir  solemn  words,  '  The  elders  will  now  bring 
forrit  the  elements,'  and  not  quail  ?  A  parishioner  may 
be  summoned  to-night ;  you  may  have  to  rise  from  your 
miserable  orgies;  and  I  ask  you,  Haddo,  what  does 
your  conscience  tell  you  ?  Are  you  fit  ?  Are  you  fit  to 
smooth  the  pillow  of  a  parting  Christian  ?  And  if  the 
summons  should  be  for  yourself,  how  then  ?  " 

Haddo  was  startled  out  of  all  composure  and  the 
better  part  of  his  temper.  "  What  's  this  of  it  ?  "  he 
cried.  "I  'm  no  waur  than  my  neebours.  I  never 
set  up  to  be  speeritual;  I  never  did.  I  'm  a  plain, 
canty  creature;  godliness  is  cheerfulness,  says  I;  give 
me  my  fiddle  and  a  dram,  and  I  wouldna  hairm  a 
flee." 

"And  I  repeat  my  question,"  said  M'Brair:  "Are  you 
fit— fit  for  this  great  charge  ?  Fit  to  carry  and  save 
souls  ?  " 

"  Fit  ?    Blethers !     As  fit 's  yoursel', "  cried  Haddo. 

"Are  you  so  great  a  self-deceiver?"  said  M'Brair. 
"  Wretched  man,  trampler  upon  God's  covenants, 
crucifier  of  your  Lord  afresh!  1  will  ding  you  to  the 
earth  with  one  word:  How  about  the  young  woman. 
Janet  M'Clour?" 

"  Well,  what  about  her  ?  what  do  I  ken  ?  "  cries 
Haddo.  "  M'Brair,  ye  daft  auld  wife,  I  tell  ye  as  true  's 
truth,  I  never  meddled  her.  It  was  just  daffing,  I  tell 
ye:  daifing,  and  nae  mair:  a  piece  of  fun,  like!  I  'm 
no  denying  but  what  I  'm  fond  of  fun,  sma'  blame  to 
me!  But  for  onything  sarious— hout,  man,  it  might 
come  to  a  deposeetion!  I  '11  sweir  it  to  ye.  Where  's 
a  Bible,  till  you  hear  me  sweir  ?  " 

^17 


HEATHERCAT 

"There  is  nae  Bible  in  your  study,"  said  M^Brair, 
severely. 

And  Haddo,  after  a  few  distracted  turns,  was  con- 
strained to  accept  the  fact. 

"  Weel,  and  suppose  there  isna  ?  "  he  cried,  stamping. 
"  What  mair  can  ye  say  of  us,  but  just  that  I  'm  fond 
of  my  joke,  and  so  's  she  ?  I  declare  to  God,  by  what 
I  ken,  she  might  be  the  Virgin  Mary— if  she  would  just 
keep  clear  of  the  dragoons.  But  me!  na,  de'il  haet  o' 
me!" 

"She  is  penitent  at  least,"  says  M'Brair. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  actually  up  and  tell  me  to  my  face 
that  she  accused  me  ?  "  cried  the  curate. 

"I  canna  just  say  that,"  replied  M'Brair.  "But  1 
rebuked  her  in  the  name  of  God,  and  she  repented 
before  me  on  her  bended  knees." 

"  Weel,  I  daur  say  she  's  been  ower  far  wi'  the  dra- 
goons," said  Haddo.  "I  never  denied  that.  I  ken 
naething  by  it." 

"Man,  you  but  show  your  nakedness  the  more 
plainly,"  said  M'Brair.  "  Poor,  blind,  besotted  creature 
—and  I  see  you  stoitering  on  the  brink  of  dissolution : 
your  light  out,  and  your  hours  numbered.  Awake, 
man !  "  he  shouted  with  a  formidable  voice,  "  awake, 
or  it  be  ower  late." 

"  Be  damned  if  I  stand  this ! "  exclaimed  Haddo, 
casting  his  tobacco-pipe  violently  on  the  table,  where 
it  was  smashed  in  pieces.  "  Out  of  my  house  with  ye, 
or  I  '11  call  for  the  dragoons." 

"The  speerit  of  the  Lord  is  upon  me,"  said  M'Brair, 
with  solemn  ecstasy.    "  I  sist  you  to  compear  before 


418 


FRANCIE 

the  Great  White  Throne,  and  I  warn  you  the  summons 
shall  be  bloody  and  sudden." 

And  at  this,  with  more  agility  than  could  have  been 
expected,  he  got  clear  of  the  room  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him  in  the  face  of  the  pursuing  curate. 
The  next  Lord's  day  the  curate  was  ill,  and  the  kirk 
closed,  but  for  all  his  ill  words,  Mr.  M'Brair  abode  un- 
molested in  the  house  of  Montroymont 


419 


HI 

THE  HILL-END  OF  DRUMLOWE 

This  was  a  bit  of  a  steep  broken  hill  that  overlooked 
upon  the  west  a  moorish  valley,  full  of  ink-black  pools. 
These  presently  drained  into  a  burn  that  made  off,  with 
little  noise  and  no  celerity  of  pace,  about  the  corner  of 
the  hill.  On  the  far  side  the  ground  swelled  into  a  bare 
heath,  black  with  junipers,  and  spotted  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  standing  stones  for  which  the  place  was 
famous.  They  were  many  in  that  part,  shapeless, 
white  with  lichen— you  would  have  said  with  age;  and 
had  made  their  abode  there  for  untold  centuries,  since 
first  the  heathens  shouted  for  their  installation.  The 
ancients  had  hallowed  them  to  some  ill  religion,  and 
their  neighbourhood  had  long  been  avoided  by  the  pru- 
dent before  the  fall  of  day;  but  of  late,  on  the  up- 
springing  of  new  requirements,  these  lonely  stones  on 
the  moor  had  again  become  a  place  of  assembly.  A 
watchful  picket  on  the  Hill-end  commanded  all  the 
northern  and  eastern  approaches;  and  such  was  the 
disposition  of  the  ground,  that  by  certain  cunningly 
posted  sentries  the  west  also  could  be  made  secure 
against  surprise:  there  was  no  place  in  the  country 
where  a  conventicle  could  meet  with  more  quiet  of 
mind  or  a  more  certain  retreat  open,  in  the  case  of 

420 


THE    HILL-END   OF   DRUMLOWE 

interference  from  the  dragoons.  The  minister  spoke 
from  a  know  close  to  the  edge  of  the  Ring,  and  poured 
out  the  words  God  gave  him  on  the  very  threshold  of 
the  devils  of  yore.  When  they  pitched  a  tent  (which 
was  often  in  wet  weather,  upon  a  communion  occa- 
sion) it  was  rigged  over  the  huge  isolated  pillar  that 
has  the  name  of  Anes-Errand,  none  knew  why.  And 
the  congregation  sat  partly  clustered  on  the  slope  below, 
and  partly  among  the  idolatrous  monoliths  and  on  the 
turfy  soil  of  the  Ring  itself.  In  truth  the  situation  was 
well  qualified  to  give  a  zest  to  Christian  doctrines,  had 
there  been  any  wanted.  But  these  congregations  as- 
sembled under  conditions  at  once  so  formidable  and 
romantic  as  made  a  zealot  of  the  most  cold.  They 
were  the  last  of  the  faithful;  God,  who  had  averted  His 
face  from  all  other  countries  of  the  world,  still  leaned 
from  Heaven  to  observe,  with  swelling  sympathy,  the 
doings  of  His  moorland  remnant;  Christ  was  by  them 
with  His  eternal  wounds,  with  dropping  tears;  the  Holy 
Ghost  (never  perfectly  realised  nor  firmly  adopted  by 
Protestant  imaginations)  was  dimly  supposed  to  be  in 
the  heart  of  each  and  on  the  lips  of  the  minister.  And 
over  against  them  was  the  army  of  the  hierarchies,  from 
the  men  Charles  and  James  Stuart,  on  to  King  Lewie 
and  the  Emperor;  and  the  scarlet  Pope,  and  the  muckle 
black  devil  himself,  peering  out  the  red  mouth  of  hell 
in  an  ecstasy  of  hate  and  hope.  "  One  pull  more!  "  he 
seemed  to  cry ;  "  one  pull  more,  and  it 's  done.  There  's 
only  Clydesdale  and  the  Stewartry,  and  the  three  Bailie- 
ries  of  Ayr,  left  for  God."  And  with  such  an  august 
assistance  of  powers  and  principalities  looking  on 
at  the  last  conflict  of  good  and  evil,  it  was  scarce  pos- 

421 


HEATHERCAT 

sible  to  Spare  a  thought  to  those  old,  infirm,  debile, 
ab  agendo  devils  whose  holy  place  they  were  now 
violating. 

There  might  have  been  three  hundred  to  four  hun- 
dred present.  At  least  there  were  three  hundred  horse 
tethered  for  the  most  part  in  the  Ring;  though  some  of 
the  hearers  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  stood  with 
their  bridles  in  their  hand,  ready  to  mount  at  the  first 
signal.  The  circle  of  faces  was  strangely  characteristic ; 
long,  serious,  strongly  marked,  the  tackle  standing  out 
in  the  lean  brown  cheeks,  the  mouth  set  and  the  eyes 
shining  with  a  fierce  enthusiasm;  the  shepherd,  the 
labouring  man,  and  the  rarer  laird,  stood  there  in  their 
broad  blue  bonnets  or  laced  hats,-  and  presenting  an 
essential  identity  of  type.  From  time  to  time  a  long- 
drawn  groan  of  adhesion  rose  in  this  audience,  and  was 
propagated  like  a  wave  to  the  outskirts,  and  died  away 
among  the  keepers  of  the  horses.  It  had  a  name;  it 
was  called  "a  holy  groan." 

A  squall  came  up;  a  great  volley  of  flying  mist  went 
out  before  it  and  whelmed  the  scene ;  the  wind  stormed 
with  a  sudden  fierceness  that  carried  away  the  minister's 
voice  and  twitched  his  tails  and  made  him  stagger,  and 
turned  the  congregation  for  a  moment  into  a  mere 
pother  of  blowing  plaid-ends  and  prancing  horses ;  and 
the  rain  followed  and  was  dashed  straight  into  their 
faces.  Men  and  women  panted  aloud  in  the  shock  of 
that  violent  shower-bath;  the  teeth  were  bared  along 
all  the  line  in  an  involuntary  grimace;  plaids,  mantles, 
and  riding-coats  were  proved  vain,  and  the  worshippers 
felt  the  water  stream  on  their  naked  flesh.  The  minis- 
ter, reinforcing  his  great  and  shrill  voice,  continued  to 

422 


THE    HILL-END   OF   DRUMLOWE 

contend  against  and  triumph  over  the  rising  of  the 
squall  and  the  dashing  of  the  rain. 

**  In  that  day  ye  may  go  thirty  mile  and  not  hear  a 
crawing  cock,"  he  said;  "and  fifty  mile  and  not  get  a 
light  to  your  pipe;  and  an  hundred  mile  and  not  see  a 
smoking  house.  For  there  '11  be  naething  in  all  Scot- 
land but  deid  men's  banes  and  blackness,  and  the  living 
anger  of  the  Lord.  O,  where  to  find  a  bield— O  sirs, 
where  to  find  a  bield  from  the  wind  of  the  Lord's  anger  ? 
Do  ye  call  tbts  a  wind  ?  Be  thankit!  Sirs,  this  is  but  a 
temporary  dispensation ;  this  is  but  a  puff  of  wind,  this 
is  but  a  spit  of  rain  and  by  with  it.  Already  there  *s  a 
blue  bow  in  the  west,  and  the  sun  will  take  the  crown 
of  the  causeway  again,  and  your  things  '11  be  dried 
upon  ye,  and  your  flesh  will  be  warm  upon  your  bones. 
But  O,  sirs,  sirs!  for  the  day  of  the  Lord's  anger!  " 

His  rhetoric  was  set  forth  with  an  ear-piercing  elocu- 
tion, and  a  voice  that  sometimes  crashed  like  cannon. 
Such  as  it  was,  it  was  the  gift  of  all  hill-preachers,  to  a 
singular  degree  of  likeness  or  identity.  Their  images 
scarce  ranged  beyond  the  red  horizon  of  the  moor  and 
the  rainy  hill-top,  the  shepherd  and  his  sheep,  a  fowling- 
piece,  a  spade,  a  pipe,  a  dunghill,  a  crowing  cock,  the 
shining  and  the  withdrawal  of  the  sun.  An  occasional 
pathos  of  simple  humanity,  and  frequent  patches  of  big 
biblical  words,  relieved  the  homely  tissue.  It  was  a 
poetry  apart ;  bleak,  austere,  but  genuine,  and  redolent 
of  the  soil. 

A  little  before  the  coming  of  the  squall  there  was  a 
different  scene  enacting  at  the  outposts.  For  the  most 
part  the  sentinels  were  faithful  to  their  important  duty; 
the  Hill-end  of  Drumlowe  was  known  to  be  a  safe 

423 


HEATHERCAT 

meeting-place;  and  the  out-pickets  on  this  particular 
day  had  been  somewhat  lax  from  the  beginning,  and 
grew  laxer  during  the  inordinate  length  of  the  discourse. 
Francie  lay  there  in  his  appointed  hiding-hole,  looking 
abroad  between  two  whin-bushes.  His  view  was 
across  the  course  of  the  burn,  then  over  a  piece  of  plain 
moorland,  to  a  gap  between  two  hills;  nothing  moved 
but  grouse,  and  some  cattle  who  slowly  traversed  his 
field  of  view,  heading  northward :  he  heard  the  psalms, 
and  sang  words  of  his  own  to  the  savage  and  melan- 
choly music;  for  he  had  his  own  design  in  hand,  and 
terror  and  cowardice  prevailed  in  his  bosom  alternately, 
like  the  hot  and  the  cold  fit  of  an  ague.  Courage  was 
uppermost  during  the  singing,  which  he  accompanied 
through  all  its  length  with  this  impromptu  strain: 

"  And  I  will  ding  Jock  Crozer  down 
No  later  than  the  day." 

Presently  the  voice  of  the  preacher  came  to  him  in 
wafts,  at  the  wind's  will,  as  by  the  opening  and  shut- 
ting of  a  door;  wild  spasms  of  screaming,  as  of  some 
undiscerned  gigantic  hill-bird  stirred  with  inordinate 
passion,  succeeded  to  intervals  of  silence;  and  Francie 
heard  them  with  a  critical  ear.  "Ay,"  he  thought  at 
last,  "  he  '11  do;  he  has  the  bit  in  his  mou'  fairly." 

He  had  observed  that  his  friend,  or  rather  his  enemy, 
Jock  Crozer,  had  been  established  at  a  very  critical  part 
of  the  line  of  outposts;  namely,  where  the  burn  issues 
by  an  abrupt  gorge  from  the  semicircle  of  high  moors. 
If  anything  was  calculated  to  nerve  him  to  battle  it  was 
this.  The  post  was  important;  next  to  the  Hill-end  itself, 
it  might  be  called  the  key  to  the  position ;  and  it  was 

424 


THE    HILL-END   OF   DRUMLOWE 

where  the  cover  was  bad,  and  in  which  it  was  most 
natural  to  place  a  child.  It  should  have  been  Heather- 
cat's  ;  why  had  it  been  given  to  Crozer  ?  An  exquisite 
fear  of  what  should  be  the  answer  passed  through  his 
marrow  every  time  he  faced  the  question.  Was  it 
possible  that  Crozer  could  have  boasted  ?  that  there  were 
rumours  abroad  to  his— Heathercat's— discredit?  that 
his  honour  was  publicly  sullied  ?  All  the  world  went 
dark  about  him  at  the  thought;  he  sank  without  a  strug- 
gle into  the  midnight  pool  of  despair;  and  every  time  he 
so  sank,  he  brought  back  with  him— not  drowned  hero- 
ism indeed,  but  half-drowned  courage  by  the  locks. 
His  heart  beat  very  slowly  as  he  deserted  his  station,  and 
began  to  crawl  towards  that  of  Crozer.  Something 
pulled  him  back,  and  it  was  not  the  sense  of  duty,  but 
a  remembrance  of  Crozer's  build  and  hateful  readiness 
of  fist.  Duty,  as  he  conceived  it,  pointed  him  forward 
on  the  rueful  path  that  he  was  travelling.  Duty  bade 
him  redeem  his  name  if  he  were  able,  at  the  risk  of 
broken  bones;  and  his  bones  and  every  tooth  in  his 
head  ached  by  anticipation.  An  awful  subsidiary  fear 
whispered  him  that  if  he  were  hurt,  he  should  disgrace 
himself  by  weeping.  He  consoled  himself,  boy-like, 
with  the  consideration  that  he  was  not  yet  committed ; 
he  could  easily  steal  over  unseen  to  Crozer's  post,  and 
he  had  a  continuous  private  idea  that  he  would  very 
probably  steal  back  again.  His  course  took  him  so 
near  the  minister  that  he  could  hear  some  of  his  words: 
"  What  news,  minister,  of  Claver'se  ?  He  's  going 
round  like  a  roaring,  rampaging  lion  .  .  . 


425 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

The  story,  which  opens  with  these  scenes  of  covenanting  life  and  char- 
acter in  Scotland,  was  intended  to  shift  presently  across  the  Atlantic,  first 
to  the  Carolina  plantations,  and  next  to  the  ill-fated  Scotch  settlement  in 
Darien.  Practically  all  that  we  know  of  it  is  contained  in  one  or  two 
passages  of  letters  from  the  author  to  Mr.  Charles  Baxter  and  Mr.  S.  R. 
Crockett.    To  Mr.  Baxter  he  writes  as  follows : 

"6  Deer.,  1893. 

"'Oct;  25,  1685,  at  Privy  Council,  George  Murray,  Lieutenant  of  the 
King's  Guard,  and  others,  did,  on  the  21  of  September  last,  obtain  a 
clandestine  order  of  Privy  Council  to  apprehend  the  person  of  Janet  Pringle, 
daughter  to  the  late  Clifton,  and  she  having  retired  out  of  the  way  upon 
information,  he  got  an  order  against  Andrew  Pringle,  her  uncle,  to  produce 
her.  .  .  .  But  she  having  married  Andrew  Pringle,  her  uncle's  son  (to 
disappoint  all  their  designs  of  selling  her),  a  boy  of  13  years  old'— but 
my  boy  is  1 4,  so  I  extract  no  further  (Fountainhall,  i.  320).  May  6,  1 685, 
Wappus  Pringle  of  Clifton  was  still  alive  after  all,i  and  in  prison  for  debt, 
and  transacts  with  Lieutenant  Murray,  giving  security  for  7000  marks 
(i.  320). 

"  My  dear  Charles,  the  above  is  my  story,  and  I  wonder  if  any  light 
can  be  thrown  on  it.  I  prefer  the  girl's  father  dead ;  and  the  question  is  how 
in  that  case  could  Lieutenant  George  Murray  get  his  order  to  apprehend 
and  his  power  to  sell  her  in  marriage  ?  Or  .  .  .  might  Lieutenant  G.  be 
her  tutor,  and  the  fugitive  to  the  Pringles,  and  on  the  discovery  of  her 
whereabouts  hastily  married  ?  A  good  legal  note  on  these  points  is  very 
ardently  desired  by  me ;  it  will  be  the  corner-stone  of  my  novel. 

"This  is  for— I  am  quite  wrong  to  tell  you,  for  you  will  tell  others, 
and  nothing  will  teach  you  that  all  my  schemes  are  in  the  air,  and  vanish 
and  reappear  again  like  shapes  in  the  clouds— it  is  for  Heathercat;  whereof 

1  No ;  it  seems  to  have  been  her  brother  who  had  succeeded. 
426 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

the  first  volume  will  be  called  The  Killing  Time;  and  1  believe  1  have 
authorities  ample  for  that.  But  the  second  volume  is  to  be  called  (I  be- 
lieve) Dariettf  and  for  that  I  want,  1  fear,  a  good  deal  of  truck. 

Darien  papers, 
Carstairs  papers, 
Marchmont  papers, 
Jerviswood  correspondence— 

I  hope  may  do  me;  some  sort  of  general  history  of  the  Darien  affair  (if 
there  is  a  decent  one,  which  I  misdoubt)  it  would  also  be  well  to  have; 
the  one  with  most  details,  if  possible.  It  is  singular  how  obscure  to  me 
this  decade  of  Scots  History  remains,  1690-1700:  a  deuce  of  a  want  of 
light  and  grouping  to  it.  However,  I  believe  I  shall  be  mostly  out  of 
Scotland  in  my  tale;  first  in  Carolina  and  next  in  Darien." 

The  place  of  Andrew  Pringle,  in  the  historical  extract  above  quoted, 
was  evidently  to  be  taken  in  Stevenson's  story  by  Ninian  Traquair  of 
Montroymont.  In  a  rough  draft  of  chapter  headings,  chap.  vi.  bears  the 
title,  "The  Ward  Comes  Home";  another  chapter  shows  that  her  name 
was  to  have  been  Jean  Ruthven ;  plainly  Francie  Traquair  was  to  be  the 
boy-husband  to  whom  this  Jean  was  to  be  united  in  order  to  frustrate 
the  designs  of  those  who  hoped  to  control  her  person  and  traffic  in  her 
marriage. 

The  references  in  the  author's  letters  to  Mr.  Crockett  date  from  June  30, 
1893,  and  afterwards.  His  correspondent  was  about  this  time  engaged 
in  preparing  a  covenanting  romance  of  his  own—  The  Men  of  the  Moss" 
Hags,  On  the  first-named  date  Stevenson  writes :  "  It  may  interest  you 
to  know  that  IVeir  of  Hermiston,  or  The  Hanging  Judge,  or  whatever 
the  mischief  the  thing  is  to  be  called,  centres  about  the  grave  of  the  Pray- 
ing Weaver  of  Balweary.  And  when  Heatbercat  is  written,  if  it  ever  is, 
O,  then  there  will  be  another  chance  for  the  Societies"  (i.e.,  the  United 
Societies,  generally  known  in  history  as  the  Cameronians).  A  little  later 
Stevenson  received  from  the  same  correspondent,  at  his  own  request,  ma- 
terials for  his  work  in  the  shape  of  extracts  collected  from  the  Eariston 
papers  by  the  Rev.  John  Anderson,  Assistant  Curator  of  the  Historical 
Department,  Register  House,  Edinburgh;  the  minutes  of  the  Societies, 
edited  by  the  Rev.  John  Howie  of  Lochgoin,  entitled  "  Faithful  Contend- 
ings,"  etc.,  etc.   Later,  hf  sends  a  humorous  sketch  of  a  trespassing  board 

427 


EDITORIAL  NOTE 

and  gallows,  with  R.  L.  S.  in  the  act  of  hanging  S.  R.  C,  and  on  the 
board  the  words :  "  Notice— The  Cameronians  are  the  proppaty  of  me,  R. 
L.  S.— trespassers  and  Raiders  will  be  hung."  In  the  letter  accompany- 
ing this  he  says :  "  I  have  made  many  notes  for  Heatbercat,  but  do  not 
get  much  forrader.  For  one  thing,  I  am  not  inside  these  people  yet.  Wait 
three  years  and  /  7/  race  you.  For  another  thing,  I  am  not  a  keen  partisan, 
and  to  write  a  good  book  you  must  be.  The  Society  men  were  brave, 
dour-headed,  strong-hearted  men  fighting  a  hard  battle  and  fighting  it 
hardly.  That  is  about  all  the  use  I  have  for  them."  Finally,  in  a  letter 
written  shortly  before  his  death,  he  mentions  having  laid  the  story  on  the 
shelf,  whether  permanently  or  only  for  a  while  he  does  not  know. 


438 


ESSAYS  AND  FRAGMENTS 
WRITTEN  AT  VAILIMA 


These  papers  were  draughted  in  i8gj  or  18^4  toward:,  a 
projected  new  series  of  essays  for  ''Scribner's  Magazine,"  and 
are  here  printed  for  the  first  time. 


All  rights  reserved 


ESSAYS  AND  FRAGMENTS 

WRITTEN  AT  VAILIMA 
I 

THE  GENESIS  OF  "  THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE  " 

I  WAS  walking  one  night  in  the  verandah  of  a  small 
house  in  which  i  lived,  outside  the  hamlet  of  Sara- 
nac.  It  was  winter;  the  night  was  very  dark;  the  air 
extraordinary  clear  and  cold,  and  sweet  with  the  purity 
of  forests.  From  a  good  way  below,  the  river  was  to 
be  heard  contending  with  ice  and  boulders :  a  few  lights 
appeared,  scattered  unevenly  among  the  darkness,  but 
so  far  away  as  not  to  lessen  the  sense  of  isolation.  For 
the  making  of  a  story  here  were  fine  conditions.  I  was 
besides  moved  with  the  spirit  of  emulation,  for  I  had 
just  finished  my  third  or  fourth  perusal  of  The  Phantom 
Ship,  "Come,"  said  I  to  my  engine,  "let  us  make  a 
tale,  a  story  of  many  years  and  countries,  of  the  sea 
and  the  land,  savagery  and  civilisation;  a  story  that 
shall  have  the  same  large  features  and  may  be  treated 
in  the  same  summary  elliptic  method  as  the  book  you 
have  been  reading  and  admiring."  I  was  here  brought 
up  with  a  reflection  exceedingly  just  in  itself,  but  which, 
as  the  sequel  shows,  I  failed  to  profit  by.     I  saw  that 

43« 


ESSAYS   AND   FRAGMENTS 

Marryat,  not  less  than  Homer,  Milton,  and  Virgil,  prof- 
ited by  the  choice  of  a  familiar  and  legendary  subject; 
so  that  he  prepared  his  readers  on  the  very  title-page; 
and  this  set  me  cudgelling  my  brains,  if  by  any  chance 
I  could  hit  upon  some  similar  belief  to  be  the  centre- 
piece of  my  own  meditated  fiction.  In  the  course  of 
this  vain  search  there  cropped  up  in  my  memory  a 
singular  case  of  a  buried  and  resuscitated  fakir,  which 
I  had  been  often  told  by  an  uncle  of  mine,  then  lately 
dead,  Inspector-General  John  Balfour. 

On  such  a  fine  frosty  night,  with  no  wind  and  the 
thermometer  below  zero,  the  brain  works  with  much 
vivacity ;  and  the  next  moment  I  had  seen  the  circum- 
stance transplanted  from  India  and  the  tropics  to  the 
Adirondack  wilderness  and  the  stringent  cold  of  the 
Canadian  border.  Here  then,  almost  before  I  had  begun 
my  story,  I  had  two  countries,  two  of  the  ends  of  the 
earth  involved:  and  thus  though  the  notion  of  the 
resuscitated  man  failed  entirely  on  the  score  of  general 
acceptation,  or  even  (as  I  have  since  found)  acceptability, 
it  fitted  at  once  with  my  design  of  a  tale  of  many  lands ; 
and  this  decided  me  to  consider  further  of  its  possibili- 
ties. The  man  who  should  thus  be  buried  was  the  first 
question:  a  good  man,  whose  return  to  life  would  be 
hailed  by  the  reader  and  the  other  characters  with  glad- 
ness ?  This  trenched  upon  the  Christian  picture  and  was 
dismissed.  If  the  idea,  then,  was  to  be  of  any  use  at 
all  for  me,  I  had  to  create  a  kind  of  evil  genius  to  his 
friends  and  family,  take  him  through  many  disappear- 
ances, and  make  this  final  restoration  from  the  pit  of 
death,  in  the  icy  American  wilderness,  the  last  and 
grimmest  of  the  series.     I  need  not  tell  my  brothers  of 

432 


THE  GENESIS  OF   "THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE" 

the  craft  that  I  was  now  in  the  most  interesting  mo- 
ment of  an  author's  life;  the  hours  that  followed  that 
night  upon  the  balcony,  and  the  following  nights  and 
days,  whether  walking  abroad  or  lying  wakeful  in  my 
bed,  were  hours  of  unadulterated  joy.  My  mother, 
who  was  then  living  with  me  alone,  perhaps  had  less 
enjoyment;  for,  in  the  absence  of  my  wife,  who  is  my 
usual  helper  in  these  times  of  parturition,  I  must  spur 
her  up  at  all  seasons  to  hear  me  relate  and  try  to  clarify 
my  unformed  fancies. 

And  while  I  was  groping  for  the  fable  and  the  char- 
acters required,  behold,  i  found  them  lying  ready  and 
nine  years  old  in  my  memory.  Pease  porridge  hot,  pease 
porridge  cold,  pease  porridge  in  the  pot,  nine  years  old. 
Was  there  ever  a  more  complete  justification  of  the  rule 
of  Horace  ?  Here,  thinking  of  quite  other  things,  I  had 
stumbled  on  the  solution,  or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say 
(in  stagewright  phrase)  the  Curtain  or  final  Tableau  of  a 
story  conceived  long  before  on  the  moors  between 
Pitlochry  and  Strathardle,  conceived  in  the  Highland 
rain,  in  the  blend  of  the  smell  of  heather  and  bog-plants, 
and  with  a  mind  full  of  the  Athole  correspondence  and 
the  memories  of  the  dumlicide  Justice.  So  long  ago, 
so  far  away  it  was,  that  I  had  first  evoked  the  faces  and 
the  mutual  tragic  situation  of  the  men  of  Durisdeer. 

My  story  was  now  world-wide  enough:  Scotland, 
India,  and  America  being  all  obligatory  scenes.  But  of 
these  India  was  strange  to  me  except  in  books;  I  had 
never  known  any  living  Indian  save  a  Parsee,  a  member 
of  my  club  in  London,  equally  civilised  and  (to  all 
seeing)  equally  occidental  with  myself.  It  was  plain, 
thus  far,  that  I  should  have  to  get  into  India  and  out  of 

433 


ESSAYS   AND   FRAGMENTS 

it  again  upon  a  foot  of  fairy  lightness;  and  I  believe 
this  first  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  the  Chevalier 
Burke  for  a  narrator.  It  was  at  first  intended  that  he 
should  be  Scottish,  and  I  was  then  filled  with  fears  that 
he  might  prove  only  the  degraded  shadow  of  my  own 
Alan  Breck.  Presently,  however,  it  began  to  occur  to 
me  it  would  be  like  my  Master  to  curry  favour  with  the 
Prince's  Irishmen ;  and  that  an  Irish  refugee  would  have 
a  particular  reason  to  find  himself  in  India  with  his 
countryman,  the  unfortunate  Lally.  Irish,  therefore,  I 
decided  he  should  be,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  was 
aware  of  a  tall  shadow  across  my  path,  the  shadow  of 
Barry  Lyndon.  No  man  (in  Lord  Foppington's  phrase) 
of  a  nice  morality  could  go  very  deep  with  my  Master: 
in  the  original  idea  of  this  story  conceived  in  Scotland, 
this  companion  had  been  besides  intended  to  be  worse 
than  the  bad  elder  son  with  whom  (as  it  was  then 
meant)  he  was  to  visit  Scotland;  if  I  took  an  Irishman, 
and  a  very  bad  Irishman,  in  the  midst  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  how  was  I  to  evade  Barry  Lyndon  ?  The 
wretch  besieged  me,  offering  his  services ;  he  gave  me 
excellent  references;  he  proved  that  he  was  highly 
fitted  for  the  work  I  had  to  do;  he,  or  my  own  evil 
heart,  suggested  it  was  easy  to  disguise  his  ancient 
livery  with  a  little  lace  and  a  few  frogs  and  buttons,  so 
that  Thackeray  himself  should  hardly  recognise  him. 
And  then  of  a  sudden  there  came  to  me  memories  of 
a  young  Irishman,  with  whom  I  was  once  intimate, 
and  had  spent  long  nights  walking  and  talking  with, 
upon  a  very  desolate  coast  in  a  bleak  autumn :  I  recalled 
him  as  a  youth  of  an  extraordinary  moral  simplicity— 
almost  vacancy ;  plastic  to  any  influence,  the  creature  of 

434 


THE   GENESIS   OF   "THE  MASTER  OF   BALLANTRAE" 

his  admirations :  and  putting  such  a  youth  in  fancy  into 
the  career  of  a  soldier  of  fortune,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
he  would  serve  my  turn  as  well  as  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  in 
place  of  entering  into  competition  with  the  Master, 
would  afford  a  slight  though  a  distinct  relief.  I  know 
not  if  I  have  done  him  well,  though  his  moral  disserta- 
tions always  highly  entertained  me:  but  I  own  I  have 
been  surprised  to  find  that  he  reminded  some  critics  of 
Barry  Lyndon  after  all  .  .  , 


435 


II 

RANDOM  memories:  "  ROSA  QjUO  LOCORUM 


Through  what  little  channels,  by  what  hints  and 
premonitions,  the  consciousness  of  the  man's  art  dawns 
first  upon  the  child,  it  should  be  not  only  interesting 
but  instructive  to  inquire.  A  matter  of  curiosity  to-day, 
it  will  become  the  ground  of  science  to-morroWo  From 
the  mind  of  childhood  there  is  more  history  and  more 
philosophy  to  be  fished  up  than  from  all  the  printed 
volumes  in  a  library.  The  child  is  conscious  of  an 
interest,  not  in  literature,  but  in  life.  A  taste  for  the 
precise,  the  adroit,  or  the  comely  in  the  use  of  words, 
comes  late;  but  long  before  that  he  has  enjoyed  in 
books  a  delightful  dress-rehearsal  of  experience.  He  is 
first  conscious  of  this  material— I  had  almost  said  this 
practical— preoccupation;  it  does  not  follow  that  it 
really  came  the  first.  I  have  some  old  fogged  nega- 
tives in  my  collection  that  would  seem  to  imply  a  prior 
stage.  "The  Lord  is  gone  up  with  a  shout,  and  God 
with  the  sound  of  a  trumpet"— memorial  version,  I 
know  not  where  to  find  the  text— rings  still  in  my  ear 
from  my  first  childhood,  and  perhaps  with  something 
of  my  nurse's  accent.    There  was  possibly  some  sort  of 

436 


RANDOM  MEMORIES;   "ROSA  QUO   LOCORUM" 

image  written  in  my  mind  by  these  loud  words,  but  I 
believe  the  words  themselves  were  what  I  cherished. 
I  had  about  the  same  time,  and  under  the  same  influ- 
ence—that of  my  dear  nurse— a  favourite  author:  it  is 
possible  the  reader  has  not  heard' of  him— the  Rev. 
Robert  Murray  M'Cheyne.  My  nurse  and  I  admired  his 
name  exceedingly,  so  that  I  must  have  been  taught  the 
love  of  beautiful  sounds  before  I  was  breeched;  and  I 
remember  two  specimens  of  his  muse  until  this  day : 

"  Behind  the  hills  of  Naphtali 
The  sun  went  slowly  down, 
Leaving  on  mountain,  tower,  and  tree, 
A  tinge  of  golden  brown." 

There  is  imagery  here,  and  I  set  it  on  one  side.  The 
other— it  is  but  a  verse— not  only  contains  no  image, 
but  is  quite  unintelligible  even  to  my  comparatively 
instructed  mind,  and  I  know  not  even  how  to  spell  the 
outlandish  vocable  that  charmed  me  in  my  childhood : 

"  Jehovah  Tschidkenu  is  nothing  to  her  " ;  i 

I  may  say,  without  flippancy,  that  He  was  nothing  to 
me  either,  since  I  had  no  ray  of  a  guess  of  what  He  was 
about;  yet  the  verse,  from  then  to  now,  a  longer  inter- 
val than  the  life  of  a  generation,  has  continued  to  haunt 
me. 

I  have  said  that  I  should  set  a  passage  distinguished 
by  obvious  and  pleasing  imagery,  however  faint;  for 
the  child  thinks  much  in  images,  words  are  very  live 

1  "  Jehovah  Tsidkenu,"  translated  in  the  Authorised  Version  as  "  The 
Lord  our  Righteousness  "  (Jeremiah  xxiii.  6  and  xxxiii.i6). 

437 


ESSAYS   AND   FRAGMENTS 

to  him,  phrases  that  imply  a  picture  eloquent  beyond 
their  value.  Rummaging  in  the  dusty  pigeonholes  of 
memory,  I  came  once  upon  a  graphic  version  of  the 
famous  psalm,  **  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd  " :  and  from 
the  places  employed  in  its  illustration,  which  are  all  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  a  house  then  occupied 
by  my  father,  I  am  able  to  date  it  before  the  seventh 
year  of  my  age,  although  it  was  probably  earlier  in 
fact.  The  "  pastures  green  "  were  represented  by  a  cer- 
tain suburban  stubble-field,  where  I  had  once  walked 
with  my  nurse,  under  an  autumnal  sunset,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Water  of  Leith :  the  place  is  long  ago  built  up ; 
no  pastures  now,  no  stubble-fields ;  only  a  maze  of  little 
streets  and  smoking  chimneys  and  shrill  children.  Here, 
in  the  fleecy  person  of  a  sheep,  I  seemed  to  myself  to 
follow  something  unseen,  unrealised,  and  yet  benig- 
nant; and  close  by  the  sheep  in  which  I  was  incarnated 
—as  if  for  greater  security— rustled  the  skirts  of  my 
nurse.  "  Death's  dark  vale  "  was  a  certain  archway  in 
the  Warriston  Cemetery :  a  formidable  yet  beloved  spot, 
for  children  love  to  be  afraid,— in  measure  as  they  love 
all  experience  of  vitality.  Here  I  beheld  myself  some 
paces  ahead  (seeing  myself,  I  mean,  from  behind), 
utterly  alone  in  that  uncanny  passage :  on  the  one  side 
of  me  a  rude,  knobby  shepherd's  staff,  such  as  cheers 
the  heart  of  the  cockney  tourist,  on  the  other  a  rod  like 
a  billiard-cue  appeared  to  accompany  my  progress: 
the  staff  sturdily  upright,  the  billiard-cue  inclined  con- 
fidentially, like  one  whispering,  towards  my  ear.  I  was 
aware—  I  will  never  tell  you  how— that  the  presence  of 
these  articles  afforded  me  encouragement.  The  third 
and  last  of  my  pictures  illustrated  the  words : 

438 


RANDOM   MEMORIES:   "ROSA   QUO   LOCORUM" 

"  My  table  Thou  hast  furnished 
In  presence  of  my  foes : 
My  head  Thou  dost  with  oil  anoint, 
And  my  cup  overflows  " : 

and  this  was  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  the  series. 
I  saw  myself  seated  in  a  kind  of  open  stone  summer- 
house  at  table;  over  my  shoulder  a  hairy,  bearded,  and 
robed  presence  anointed  me  from  an  authentic  shoe- 
horn; the  summer-house  was  part  of  the  green  court 
of  a  ruin,  and  from  the  far  side  of  the  court  black  and 
white  imps  discharged  against  me  ineffectual  arrows. 
The  picture  appears  arbitrary,  but  I  can  trace  every  de- 
tail to  its  source,  as  Mr.  Brock  analysed  the  dream  of 
Alan  Armadale.  The  summer-house  and  court  were 
muddled  together  out  of  Billings'  Antiquities  of  Scot- 
land;  the  imps  conveyed  from  Bagster's  Pilgrim's 
Progress ;  the  bearded  and  robed  figure  from  any  one 
of  a  thousand  Bible  pictures ;  and  the  shoe-horn  was 
plagiarised  from  an  old  illustrated  Bible,  where  it  figured 
in  the  hand  of  Samuel  anointing  Saul,  and  had  been 
pointed  out  to  me  as  a  jest  by  my  father.  It  was 
shown  me  for  a  jest,  remark;  but  the  serious  spirit  of 
infancy  adopted  it  in  earnest.  Children  are  all  classics; 
a  bottle  would  have  seemed  an  intermediary  too  trivial 
—that  divine  refreshment  of  whose  meaning  I  had  no 
guess ;  and  I  seized  on  the  idea  of  that  mystic  shoe- 
horn with  delight,  even  as,  a  little  later,  I  should  have 
written  flagon,  chalice,  hanaper,  beaker,  or  any  word 
that  might  have  appealed  to  me  at  the  moment  as  least 
contaminate  with  mean  associations.  In  this  string  of 
pictures  I  believe  the  gist  of  the  psalm  to  have  con- 
sisted; I  believe  it  had  no  more  to  say  to  me;  and  the 

439 


ESSAYS   AND   FRAGMENTS 

result  was  consolatory.  I  would  go  to  sleep  dwelling 
with  restfulness  upon  these  images ;  they  passed  before 
me,  besides,  to  an  appropriate  music;  for  1  had  already 
singled  out  from  that  rude  psalm  the  one  lovely  verse 
which  dwells  in  the  minds  of  all,  not  growing  old,  not 
disgraced  by  its  association  with  long  Sunday  tasks,  a 
scarce  conscious  joy  in  childhood,  in  age  a  companion 
thought : 

"  In  pastures  green  Thou  leadest  me, 
The  quiet  waters  by." 

The  remainder  of  my  childish  recollections  are  all 
of  the  matter  of  what  was  read  to  me,  and  not  of  any 
manner  in  the  words.  If  these  pleased  me,  it  was 
unconsciously;  I  listened  for  news  of  the  great  va- 
cant world  upon  whose  edge  1  stood;  I  listened  for 
delightful  plots  that  I  might  re-enact  in  play,  and  ro- 
mantic scenes  and  circumstances  that  I  might  call  up 
before  me,  with  closed  eyes,  when  I  was  tired  of  Scot- 
land, and  home,  and  that  weary  prison  of  the  sick- 
chamber  in  which  I  lay  so  long  in  durance.  Robinson 
Crusoe  ;  some  of  the  books  of  that  cheerful,  ingenious, 
romantic  soul,  Mayne  Reid ;  and  a  work  (rather  grue- 
some and  bloody  for  a  child,  but  very  picturesque) 
called  Paul  Blake ;  these  are  the  three  strongest  im- 
pressions I  remember:  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson  came 
next,  longo  intervallo.  At  these  I  played,  conjured  up 
their  scenes,  and  delighted  to  hear  them  rehearsed  unto 
seventy  times  seven.  I  am  not  sure  but  what  Paul 
Blake  came  after  I  could  read.  It  seems  connected 
with  a  visit  to  the  country,  and  an  experience  unfor- 

getable.     The  day  had  been  warm;   H and  I  had 

440 


RANDOM  MEMORIES:   "ROSA  QyO   LOCORUM" 

played  together  charmingly  all  day  in  a  sandy  wilder- 
ness across  the  road;  then  came  the  evening  with  a 
great  flash  of  colour  and  a  heavenly  sweetness  in  the 
air.  Somehow  my  playmate  had  vanished,  or  is  out  of 
the  story,  as  the  sagas  say,  but  I  was  sent  into  the 
village  on  an  errand ;  and,  taking  a  book  of  fairy  tales, 
went  down  alone  through  a  fir-wood,  reading  as  I 
walked.  How  often  since  then  it  has  befallen  me  to 
be  happy  even  so;  but  that  was  the  first  time:  the 
shock  of  that  pleasure  I  have  never  since  forgot,  and 
if  my  mind  serves  me  to  the  last,  I  never  shall;  for  it 
was  then  that  I  knew  I  loved  reading. 


To  pass  from  hearing  literature  to  reading  it  is  to  take 
a  great  and  dangerous  step.  With  not  a  few,  I  think 
a  large  proportion  of  their  pleasure  then  comes  to  an 
end;  "the  malady  of  not  marking"  overtakes  them; 
they  read  thenceforward  by  the  eye  alone  and  hear 
never  again  the  chime  of  fair  words  or  the  march  of 
the  stately  period.  Non  ragioniam  of  these.  But  to 
all  the  step  is  dangerous;  it  involves  coming  of  age;  it 
is  even  a  kind  of  second  weaning.  In  the  past  all  was 
at  the  choice  of  others ;  they  chose,  they  digested,  they 
read  aloud  for  us  and  sang  to  their  own  tune  the  books 
of  childhood.  In  the  future  we  are  to  approach  the 
silent,  inexpressive  type  alone,  like  pioneers;  and  the 
choice  of  what  we  are  to  read  is  in  our  own  hands 
thenceforward.  For  instance,  in  the  passages  already 
adduced,  I  detect  and  applaud  the  ear  of  my  old  nurse; 
they  were  of  her  choice,  and  she  imposed  them  on  my 

441 


ESSAYS  AND   FRAGMENTS 

infancy,  reading  the  works  of  others  as  a  poet  would 
scarce  dare  to  read  his  own;  gloating  on  the  rhythm, 
dwelling  with  delight  on  assonances  and  alliterations. 
I  know  very  well  my  mother  must  have  been  all  the 
while  trying  to  educate  my  taste  upon  more  secular 
authors ;  but  the  vigour  and  the  continual  opportunities 
of  my  nurse  triumphed,  and  after  a  long  search,  I  can 
find  in  these  earliest  volumes  of  my  autobiography  no 
mention  of  anything  but  nursery  rhymes,  the  Bible, 
and  Mr.  M'Cheyne. 

I  suppose  all  children  agree  in  looking  back  with  de- 
light on  their  school  Readers.  We  might  not  now  find 
so  much  pathos  in  "  Bingen  on  the  Rhine,"  "A  soldier 
of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers,"  or  in  "  The  Soldier's 
Funeral,"  in  the  declaration  of  which  I  was  held  to  have 
surpassed  myself.  "Robert's  voice,"  said  the  master 
on  this  memorable  occasion,  "  is  not  strong,  but  im- 
pressive": an  opinion  which  I  was  fool  enough  to 
carry  home  to  my  father;  who  roasted  me  for  years  in 
consequence.  I  am  sure  one  should  not  be  so  deli- 
ciously  tickled  by  the  humorous  pieces : 

"  What,  crusty  ?  cries  Will,  in  a  taking, 
Who  would  not  be  crusty  with  half  a  year's  baking?  " 

I  think  this  quip  would  leave  us  cold.  The  "  Isles  of 
Greece"  seem  rather  tawdry  too;  but  on  the  "Address 
to  the  Ocean,"  or  on  "  The  Dying  Gladiator,"  "time  has 
writ  no  wrinkle." 

"  'T  is  the  mom,  but  dim  and  dark; 
Whither  flies  the  silent  lark  ?  "— 

does  the  reader  recall  the  moment  when  his  eye  first 
fell  upon  these  lines  in  the  Fourth  Reader;  and  "sur- 

442 


RANDOM  MEMORIES:   "ROSA  QUO   LOCORUM" 

prised  with  joy,  impatient  as  the  wind,"  he  plunged 
into  the  sequel  ?  And  there  was  another  piece,  this 
time  in  prose,  which  none  can  have  forgotten;  many 
like  me  must  have  searched  Dickens  with  zeal  to  fmd 
it  again,  and  in  its  proper  context,  and  have  perhaps 
been  conscious  of  some  inconsiderable  measure  of  dis- 
appointment, that  it  was  only  Tom  Pinch  who  drove, 
in  such  a  pomp  of  poetry,  to  London. 

But  in  the  Reader  we  are  still  under  guides.  What 
a  boy  turns  out  for  himself,  as  he  rummages  the  book- 
shelves, is  the  real  test  and  pleasure.  My  father's  library 
was  a  spot  of  some  austerity :  the  proceedings  of  learned 
societies,  some  Latin  divinity,  cyclopaedias,  physical 
science,  and,  above  all,  optics,  held  the  chief  place  upon 
the  shelves,  and  it  was  only  in  holes  and  corners  that 
anything  really  legible  existed  as  by  accident.  The 
Parents  Assistant,  Rob  Roy,  IVaverley,  and  Guy  Man- 
nermg,  the  Voyages  of  Captain  Woods  Rogers,  Fuller's 
and  Bunyan's  Holy  Wars,  The  Reflections  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  The  Female  Bluebeard,  G.  Sand's  Mare  au 
Diable  (how  came  it  in  that  grave  assembly!),  Ains- 
worth's  Tower  of  London,  and  four  old  volumes  of 
Punch— these  were  the  chief  exceptions.  In  these 
latter,  which  made  for  years  the  chief  of  my  diet,  I 
very  early  fell  in  love  (almost  as  soon  as  I  could  spell) 
with  the  Snob  Papers.  I  knew  them  almost  by  heart, 
particularly  the  visit  to  the  Pontos ;  and  I  remember  my 
surprise  when  I  found,  long  afterwards,  that  they  were 
famous,  and  signed  with  a  famous  name;  to  me,  as  I 
read  and  admired  them,  they  were  the  works  of  Mr. 
Punch.  Time  and  again  I  tried  to  read  Rob  Roy,  with 
whom  of  course  I  was  acquainted  from  the  Tales  of  a 

443 


ESSAYS  AND   FRAGMENTS 

Grandfather ;  time  and  again  the  early  part,  with  Rash- 
leigh  and  (think  of  it!)  the  adorable  Diana,  choked  me 
off;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  pleasure  and  surprise 
with  which,  lying  on  the  floor  one  summer  evening,  I 
struck  of  a  sudden  into  the  first  scene  with  Andrew 
Fairservice.  "  The  worthy  Dr.  Lightfoot "— "  mistrysted 
with  a  bogle  "— *'  a  wheen  green  trash  "—"Jenny,  lass, 
I  think  I  ha'e  her " :  from  that  day  to  this  the  phrases 
have  been  unforgotten.  I  read  on,  I  need  scarce  say; 
I  came  to  Glasgow,  I  bided  tryst  on  Glasgow  Bridge, 
I  met  Rob  Roy  and  the  Bailie  in  the  Tolbooth,  all  with 
transporting  pleasure;  and  then  the  clouds  gathered 
once  more  about  my  path;  and  I  dozed  and  skipped 
until  I  stumbled  half-asleep  into  the  clachan  of  Aber- 
foyle,  and  the  voices  of  Iverach  and  Galbraith  recalled 
me  to  myself.  With  that  scene  and  the  defeat  of  Cap- 
tain Thornton  the  book  concluded;  Helen  and  her  sons 
shocked  even  the  little  schoolboy  of  nine  or  ten  with 
their  unreality;  I  read  no  more,  or  I  did  not  grasp  what 
I  was  reading;  and  years  elapsed  before  I  consciously 
met  Diana  and  her  father  among  the  hills,  or  saw  Rash- 
leigh  dying  in  the  chair.  When  I  think  of  that  novel 
and  that  evening,  I  am  impatient  with  all  others ;  they 
seem  but  shadows  and  impostors;  they  cannot  satisfy 
the  appetite  which  this  awakened ;  and  I  dare  be  known 
to  think  it  the  best  of  Sir  Walter's  by  nearly  as  much 
as  Sir  Walter  is  the  best  of  novelists.  Perhaps  Mr.  Lang 
is  right,  and  our  first  friends  in  the  land  of  fiction  are 
always  the  most  real.  And  yet  I  had  read  before  this 
Guy  Mannering,  and  some  of  Waverleyy  with  no  such 
delighted  sense  of  truth  and  humour,  and  I  read  imme- 
diately after  the  greater  part  of  the  Waverley  Novels, 

444 


RANDOM  MEMORIES:   "ROSA  QUO   LOCORUM" 

and  was  never  moved  again  in  the  same  way  or  to  the 
same  degree.  One  circumstance  is  suspicious:  my 
critical  estimate  of  the  Waverley  Novels  has  scarce 
changed  at  all  since  I  was  ten.  Rob  Roy,  Guy  Man- 
nering,  and  Redgauntlet  first ;  then,  a  little  lower,  The 
Fortunes  of  Nigel ;  then,  after  a  huge  gulf,  Ivanhoe  and 
Anne  of  Geier stein :  the  rest  nowhere ;  such  was  the 
verdict  of  the  boy.  Since  then  The  Antiquary,  St. 
Ronan's  Well,  Kenilworth,  and  The  Heart  of  Midlothian 
have  gone  up  in  the  scale;  perhaps  Ivanhoe  and  Anne 
of  Geier  stein  have  gone  a  trifle  down ;  Diana  Vernon 
has  been  added  to  my  admirations  in  that  enchanted 
world  of  Rob  Roy  ;  I  think  more  of  the  letters  in  Red- 
gauntlet,  and  Peter  Peebles,  that  dreadful  piece  of  real- 
ism, I  can  now  read  about  with  equanimity,  interest, 
and  I  had  almost  said  pleasure,  while  to  the  childish 
critic  he  often  caused  unmixed  distress.  But  the  rest 
is  the  same ;  I  could  not  finish  The  Pirate  when  I  was 
a  child,  I  have  never  finished  it  yet;  Peveril  of  the  Peak 
dropped  half-way  through  from  my  schoolboy  hands, 
and  though  I  have  since  waded  to  an  end  in  a  kind  of 
wager  with  myself,  the  exercise  was  quite  without 
enjoyment.  There  is  something  disquieting  in  these 
considerations.  I  still  think  the  visit  to  Ponto's  the 
best  part  of  the  Book  of  Snobs :  does  that  mean  that  I 
was  right  when  I  was  a  child,  or  does  it  mean  that  I 
have  never  grown  since  then,  that  the  child  is  not  the 
man's  father,  but  the  man  ?  and  that  I  came  into  the 
world  with  all  my  faculties  complete,  and  have  only 
learned  sinsyne  to  be  more  tolerant  of  boredom  ?  .  .  . 


445 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 


THE  two  collections  which  here  follow  both  consist 
of  letters  written  from  Samoa  and  referring  to 
Samoan  matters.  In  other  respects  they  are  quite  un- 
like. The  first  is  a  reprint  of  correspondence  which 
appeared  in  London  newspapers  at  intervals  from  1889 
to  1895,  and  of  which  the  object  was  to  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  English  public  to  political  events  in  the  islands : 
first  to  the  proceedings  of  the  representatives  of  the  Ger- 
man Empire  before  the  Treaty  of  Berlin;  next  to  the 
administration  of  the  two  chief  officials  appointed  by 
the  three  Powers  under  that  treaty;  and  lastly,  after 
those  officials  had  been  withdrawn  and  succeeded  by 
others,  to  the  part  played  by  the  three  Consuls  in  the 
government.  Mr.  Stevenson  may  have  been  right  or 
wrong— or,  as  is  more  probable,  partly  right  and  partly 
wrong— in  his  outspoken  criticism  of  the  various  au- 
thorities engaged  in  administering  the  embroiled  affairs 
of  the  islands  where  he  had  fixed  his  home,  and  for 
whose  population  he  felt  so  warm  a  sympathy.  But 
at  all  events  he  believed  himself  to  be  working  in  the 
interests  of  justice  and  of  peace;  he  was  entirely  devoid 
of  personal  animus  and  personal  motive;  and  as  to  one 
main  part  of  his  contention,  though  not  the  rest,  the 
action  of  the  three  Powers  practically  confirmed  his 
views.  As  these  matters  filled  so  large  a  part  of  his 
time  and  thoughts,  it  seemed  proper  (following  a  sug- 

449 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

gestion  of  his  own  made  in  correspondence)  to  give, 
as  supplementing  his  Footnote  to  History,  the  letters 
referring  to  the  same  subjects  which  he  contributed 
to  the  public  press  both  before  and  after  the  appearance 
of  that  volume. 

The  letters  in  the  second  group  are  of  a  wholly  dif- 
ferent character.  They  were  written  playfully  in  order 
to  convey  impressions  of  life  at  Vailima  to  boys  and 
girls.  The  first  three  are  addressed,  through  a  lady 
who  had  been  a  friend  and  correspondent  of  the  writer's 
in  Bournemouth  days,  to  some  children  in  a  convalescent 
home  in  Kilburn  which  she  helped  to  manage;  the  re- 
mainder to  a  member  of  his  own  household,  his  wife's 
grandson  Austin  Strong,  at  times  when  he  was  away 
in  California  or  New  Zealand.  This  correspondence 
might  seem  more  properly  to  belong  to  the  collection  of 
general  letters  which  will  accompany  the  Life  of  the 
author  now  in  preparation;  but  as  it  has  already  been 
published  in  St.  Nicholas  ifitctmhtVy  1895;  January  and 
February,  1896),  it  has  been  thought  well  to  reprint  it 
here.— [S.  C] 


450 


LETTERS  TO  THE  ''TIMES,"  "PALL  MALL 
GAZETTE,"  ETC 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  TIMES  " 

Yacbt  *'Casco,**  Hawaiian  Islands,  February  lo,  t88p. 

Sir,— News  from  Polynesia  is  apt  to  come  piecemeal,  and  thus  fail  of 
its  effect,  the  first  step  being  forgotten  before  the  second  comes  to  hand. 
For  this  reason  I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  recapitulate  a  little  of  the 
past  before  I  go  on  to  illustrate  the  present  extraordinary  state  of  affairs 
in  the  Samoan  Islands. 

It  is  quite  true  that  this  group  was  largely  opened  up  by  German  en- 
terprise, and  that  the  port  of  Apia  is  much  the  creation  of  the  Godeffroys. 
So  far  the  German  case  extends ;  no  further.  Apia  was  governed  till  lately 
by  a  tripartite  municipality,  the  American,  English,  and  German  Consuls, 
and  one  other  representative  of  each  of  the  three  nations  making  up  the 
body.  To  both  America  and  Germany  a  harbour  had  been  ceded.  Eng- 
land, I  believe,  had  no  harbour,  but  that  her  position  was  quite  equal  to 
that  of  her  neighbours  one  fact  eloquently  displays.  Malietoa— then  King 
of  Samoa,  now  a  prisoner  on  the  Marshall  Islands— offered  to  accept  the 
supremacy  of  England.  Unhappily  for  himself,  his  offer  was  refused. 
Her  Majesty's  Government  declaring,  I  am  told,  that  they  would  prefer 
to  see  him  independent.  As  he  now  wanders  the  territory  of  his  island 
prison,  under  the  guns  of  an  Imperial  war-ship,  his  independence  (if  it 
still  exists)  must  be  confined  entirely  to  his  bosom. 

Such  was  the  former  equal  and  pacific  state  of  the  three  nations  at  Apia. 
It  would  be  curious  to  tell  at  length  by  what  steps  of  encroachment  on 

45 » 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

the  one  side  and  weakness  on  the  other  the  present  reign  of  terror  has 
been  brought  about ;  but  my  time  before  the  mail  departs  is  very  short, 
your  space  is  limited,  and  in  such  a  history  much  must  be  only  matter  of 
conjecture.  Briefly  and  roughly,  then,  there  came  a  sudden  change  in 
the  attitude  of  Germany.  Another  treaty  was  proposed  to  Malietoa  and 
refused ;  the  cause  of  the  rebel  Tamasese  was  invented  or  espoused ;  Malie- 
toa was  seized  and  deported,  Tamasese  installed,  the  tripartite  municipality 
dissolved,  the  German  Consul  seated  autocratically  in  its  place,  and  the 
Hawaiian  Embassy  (sent  by  a  Power  of  the  same  race  to  moderate  among 
Samoans)  dismissed  with  threats  and  insults.  In  the  course  of  these  events 
villages  have  been  shelled,  the  German  flag  has  been  at  least  once  sub- 
stituted for  the  English,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  (only  the  other  day) 
were  burned  at  Matafatatele.  On  the  day  of  the  chase  after  Malietoa  the 
houses  of  both  English  and  Americans  were  violently  entered  by  the  Ger- 
mans. Since  the  dissolution  of  the  municipality  English  and  Americans 
have  paid  their  taxes  into  the  hands  of  their  own  Consuls,  where  they 
accumulate,  and  the  German  representative,  unrecognised  and  unsup- 
ported, rules  single  in  Apia.  I  have  had  through  my  hands  a  file  of  Con- 
sular proclamations,  the  most  singular  reading— a  state  of  war  declared, 
all  other  authority  but  that  of  the  German  representative  suspended,  pun- 
ishment (and  the  punishment  of  death  in  particular)  liberally  threatened. 
It  is  enough  to  make  a  man  rub  his  eyes  when  he  reads  Colonel  de  Coet- 
logon's  protest  and  the  high-handed  rejoinder  posted  alongside  of  it  the 
next  day  by  Dr.  Knappe.  Who  is  Dr.  Knappe,  thus  to  make  peace  and 
war,  deal  in  life  and  death,  and  close  with  a  buffet  the  mouth  of  English 
Consuls?  By  what  process  known  to  diplomacy  has  he  risen  from  his 
one-sixth  part  of  municipal  authority  to  be  the  Bismarck  of  a  Polynesian 
island  ?  And  what  spell  has  been  cast  on  the  Cabinets  of  Washington 
and  St.  James's,  that  Mr.  Blacklock  should  have  been  so  long  left  unsup- 
ported, and  that  Colonel  de  Coetlogon  must  bow  his  head  under  a  public 
buffet? 

I  have  not  said  much  of  the  Samoans.  I  despair,  in  so  short  a  space, 
to  interest  English  readers  in  their  wrongs ;  with  the  mass  of  people  at 
home  they  will  pass  for  some  sort  of  cannibal  islanders,  with  whom  faith 
were  superfluous,  upon  whom  kindness  might  be  partly  thrown  away. 
And,  indeed,  I  recognise  with  gladness  that  (except  as  regards  the  cap- 
tivity of  Malietoa)  the  Samoans  have  had  throughout  the  honours  of  the 
game.     Tamasese,  the  German  puppet,  has  had  everywhere  the  under 

452 


LETTERS   TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

hand ;  almost  none,  except  those  of  his  own  clan,  have  ever  supported 
his  cause,  and  even  these  begin  now  to  desert  him.  "This  is  no  Samoan 
war,"  said  one  of  them,  as  he  transferred  his  followers  and  services  to  the 
new  Malietoa— Mataafa;  "this  is  a  German  war."  Mataafa,  if  he  be  cut 
off  from  Apia  and  the  sea,  lies  inexpugnable  in  the  foot-hills  immediately 
behind  with  five  thousand  warriors  at  his  back.  And  beyond  titles  to  a 
great  deal  of  land,  which  they  extorted  in  exchange  for  rifles  and  ammu- 
nition from  the  partisans  of  Tamasese,  of  all  this  bloodshed  and  bullying 
the  Germans  behold  no  profit.  I  have  it  by  last  advices  that  Dr.  Knappe 
has  approached  the  King  privately  with  fair  speeches,  assuring  him  that 
the  state  of  war,  bombardments,  and  other  evils  of  the  day,  are  not  at 
all  directed  at  Samoans,  but  against  the  English  and  Americans ;  and  that, 
when  these  are  extruded,  peace  shall  again  smile  on  a  German  island. 
It  can  never  be  proved,  but  is  highly  possible  he  may  have  said  so ; 
and,  whether  he  said  it  or  not,  there  is  a  sense  in  which  the  thing  is  true. 
Violence  has  not  been  found  to  succeed  with  the  Samoans ;  with  the  two 
Anglo-Saxon  Powers  it  has  been  found  to  work  like  a  charm.  I  conclude 
with  two  instances,  one  American,  one  English : 

First.  Mr.  Klein,  an  American  journalist,  was  on  the  beach  with 
Malietoa's  men  on  the  night  of  the  recent  German  defeat.  Seeing  the 
boats  approach  in  the  darkness,  Mr.  Klein  hailed  them  and  warned  them 
of  the  Samoan  ambush,  and,  by  this  innocent  and  humane  step,  made 
public  the  fact  of  his  presence.  Where  much  else  is  contested  so  much 
appears  to  be  admitted  (and,  indeed,  claimed)  upon  both  sides.  Mi. 
Klein  is  now  accused  of  firing  on  the  Germans  and  of  advising  the  Samoans 
to  fire,  both  of  which  he  denies.  He  is  accused,  after  the  fight,  of  suc- 
couring only  the  wounded  of  Malietoa's  party ;  he  himself  declares  that  he 
helped  both ;  and,  at  any  rate,  the  offence  appears  a  novel  one,  and  the 
accusation  threatens  to  introduce  fresh  dangers  into  Red  Cross  work. 
He  was  on  the  beach  that  night  in  the  exercise  of  his  profession.  If  he 
was  with  Malietoa's  men,  which  is  the  real  gist  of  his  offence,  we  who 
are  not  Germans  may  surely  ask.  Why  not  ?  On  what  grounds  is  Malie- 
toa a  rebel  ?  The  Germans  have  not  conquered  Samoa  that  I  ever  heard 
of;  they  are  there  on  treaty  like  their  neighbours,  and  Dr.  Knappe  him- 
self (in  the  eyes  of  justice)  is  no  more  than  one-sixth  part  of  the  town 
council  of  Apia.  Lastly,  Mr.  Klein's  innocence  stands  very  clearly  proven 
by  the  openness  with  which  he  declared  his  presence.  For  all  that,  this 
gentleman  lay  for  a  considerable  time,  watched  day  and  night  by  German 

453 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

sailors,  a  prisoner  in  the  American  Consulate ;  even  after  he  had  succeeded 
in  running  the  gantlet  of  the  German  guards,  and  making  his  escape  in 
a  canoe  to  the  American  war-ship  Nipsic,  he  was  imperiously  redemanded 
from  under  his  own  flag,  and  it  is  probable  his  extradition  is  being 
already  called  for  at  Washington. 

Secondly.  An  English  artist  had  gone  into  the  bush  sketching.  I 
believe  he  had  been  to  Malietoa's  camp,  so  that  his  guilt  stands  on  some- 
what the  same  ground  as  Mr.  Klein's.  He  was  forcibly  seized  on  board 
the  British  packet  Richmond,  carried  half-dressed  on  board  the  Adler, 
and  detained  there,  in  spite  of  all  protest,  until  an  English  war-ship  had 
been  cleared  for  action.  This  is  of  notoriety,  and  only  one  case  (although 
a  strong  one)  of  many.  Is  it  what  the  English  people  understand  by  the 
sovereignty  of  the  seas?— I  am,  etc., 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


O  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "times  " 

Vailima,  Upolu,  Samoa,  October  12,  1891, 
Sir,— I  beg  leave  to  lay  before  your  readers  a  copy  of  a  correspondence, 
or  (should  that  have  reached  you  by  another  channel)  to  offer  a  few  words 
of  narrative  and  comment. 

On  Saturday,  September  5,  Mr.  Cedercrantz,  the  Chief  Justice  of  Samoa, 
sailed  on  a  visit  to  Fiji,  leaving  behind  him  certain  prisoners  in  jail,  and 
Baron  Senfft  von  Pilsach,  President  of  the  Municipal  Council,  master  of 
the  field.  The  prisoners  were  five  chiefs  of  Manono  who  had  surrendered 
of  their  own  accord,  or  at  the  desire  of  Mataafa,  had  been  tried  by  a  na- 
tive magistrate,  and  received  sentence  of  six  months'  confinement  under 
"  gentlemanly  "  {sic)  conditions.  As  they  were  marched  to  prison,  certain 
of  their  country-folk  of  Manono  ran  beside  and  offered  an  immediate 
rescue ;  but  Lieutenant  Ulfsparre  ordered  the  men  of  the  escort  to  load, 
and  the  disturbance  blew  by.  How  little  weight  was  attached  to  this  in- 
cident by  the  Chief  justice  is  sufficiently  indicated  by  the  fact  of  his  de- 
parture. It  was  unhappily  otherwise  with  those  whom  he  left  behind. 
Panic  seems  to  have  marked  them  for  her  own ;  they  despaired  at  once  of 
all  lawful  defence;  and  on  Sunday,  the  day  after  the  Chief  Justice's  depar- 
ture, Apia  was  in  consequence  startled  with  strange  news.      Dynamite 

454 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

brought  from  the  wrecker  ship,  an  electrical  machine  and  a  mechanic  hired, 
the  prison  mined,  and  a  letter  despatched  to  the  people  of  Manono  advis- 
ing them  of  the  fact,  and  announcing  that  if  any  rescue  were  attempted 
prison  and  prisoners  should  be  blown  up— such  were  the  voices  of  rumour ; 
and  the  design  appearing  equally  feeble,  reckless,  and  wicked,  consider- 
able agitation  was  aroused.  Perhaps  it  had  some  effect.  Our  Govern- 
ment at  least,  which  had  rushed  so  hastily  to  one  extreme,  now  dashed 
with  the  same  speed  into  another.  Sunday  was  the  day  of  dynamite, 
Tuesday  dawned  the  day  of  deportation.  A  cutter  was  hurriedly  pre- 
pared for  sea,  and  the  prisoners,  whom  the  Chief  Justice  had  left  three 
days  before  under  a  sentence  of  "  gentlemanly  "  detention,  found  them- 
selves under  way  to  exile  in  the  Tokelaus. 

A  Government  of  this  agility  escapes  criticism :  by  multiplying  surprises 
it  obliterates  the  very  memory  of  past  mistakes.  Some,  perhaps,  forgot 
the  dynamite ;  some,  hearing  no  more  of  it,  set  it  down  to  be  a  trick  ot 
rumour  such  as  we  are  all  well  used  to  in  the  islands.  But  others  were  not 
so  sure.  Others  considered  that  the  rumour  (even  if  unfounded)  was  of 
an  ill  example,  might  bear  deplorable  fruit,  and,  from  all  points  of  view  of 
morality  and  policy,  required  a  public  contradiction.  Eleven  of  these 
last  entered  accordingly  into  the  annexed  correspondence  with  the  Presi- 
dent. It  will  be  seen  in  the  crevice  of  what  quibble  that  gentleman  sought 
refuge  and  sits  inexpugnable.  In  a  question  affecting  his  humanity,  his 
honour,  and  the  well-being  of  the  kingdom  which  he  serves,  he  has  pre- 
ferred to  maintain  what  I  can  only  call  a  voluble  silence.  The  public 
must  judge  of  the  result ;  but  there  is  one  point  to  which  I  may  be  allowed 
to  draw  attention— that  passage  in  the  fourth  of  the  appended  documents 
in  which  he  confesses  that  he  was  already  acquainted  with  the  rumours 
in  question,  and  that  he  has  been  present  (and  apparently  not  protesting) 
when  the  scandal  was  discussed  and  the  proposed  enormity  commended. 

The  correspondence  was  still  passing  when  the  President  surprised  Apia 
with  a  fresh  gambado.  He  has  been  a  long  while  in  trouble  as  to  his 
disposition  of  the  funds.  His  intention  to  build  a  house  for  himself— to 
all  appearances  with  native  money— his  sending  the  taxes  out  of  the 
islands  and  locking  them  up  in  deposits,  and  his  noisy  squabbles  with  the 
King  and  native  Parliament  as  to  the  currency,  had  all  aroused  unfavour- 
able comment.  On  Saturday,  the  3rd  of  October,  a  correspondence  on 
the  last  point  appeared  in  the  local  paper.  By  this  it  appeared  that  our 
not  too  resolute 'King  and  Parliament  had  at  last  and  in  one  particular 

455 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

defied  his  advice  and  maintained  their  own  opinion,  h  vengeance  were 
to  be  the  order  of  the  day,  it  might  have  been  expected  to  fall  on  the 
King  and  Parliament ;  but  this  would  have  been  too  direct  a  course,  and 
the  blow  was  turned  instead  against  an  innocent  municipal  council.  On 
the  7th  the  President  appeared  before  that  body,  informed  them  that  his 
authority  was  lessened  by  the  publication,  that  he  had  applied  to  the 
King  for  a  month's  leave  of  (theatrical)  absence,  and  must  now  refuse  to 
fulfil  his  duties.  With  this  he  retired  to  his  own  house,  which  is  under 
the  same  roof,  leaving  the  councillors  and  the  municipality  to  do  what 
they  pleased  and  drift  where  they  could  without  him.  It  is  reported  he 
has  since  declared  his  life  to  be  in  danger,  and  even  applied  to  his  Consul 
for  protection.  This  seems  to  pass  the  bounds  of  credibility ;  but  the 
movements  of  Baron  Senfft  von  Pilsach  have  been  throughout  so  agitated 
and  so  unexpected  that  we  know  not  what  to  look  for;  and  the  signa- 
tories of  the  annexed  addresses,  if  they  were  accused  to-morrow  of  a  design 
on  the  man's  days,  would  scarce  have  spirit  left  to  be  surprised. 

It  must  be  clearly  pointed  out  that  this  is  no  quarrel  of  German  and 
anti-German.  The  German  officials,  consular  and  naval,  have  behaved 
with  perfect  loyalty,  A  German  wrote  the  letter  to  the  paper  which  un- 
chained this  thunderbolt ;  and  it  was  a  German  who  took  the  chair  which 
the  President  had  just  vacated  at  the  table  of  the  municipal  board.  And 
though  the  Baron  is  himself  of  German  race,  his  conduct  presents  no  ap- 
pearance of  design,  how  much  less  of  conspiracy!  Doubtless  certain 
journals  will  so  attempt  to  twist  it,  but  to  the  candid  it  will  seem  no 
more  than  the  distracted  evolutions  of  a  weak  man  in  a  series  of  panics. 

Such  is  the  rough  outline  of  the  events  to  which  I  would  fain  direct  the 
attention  of  the  public  at  home,  in  the  States,  and  still  more  in  Germany. 
It  has  for  me  but  one  essential  point.  Budgets  have  been  called  in  ques- 
tion, and  officials  publicly  taken  the  pet  before  now.  But  the  dynamite 
scandal  is  unique. 

If  it  be  unfounded,  our  complaint  is  already  grave.  It  was  the  Presi- 
dent's duty,  as  a  man  and  as  a  responsible  official,  to  have  given  it  instant 
and  direct  denial :  and  since  he  neither  did  so  of  his  own  motion,  nor 
consented  to  do  so  on  our  repeated  instances,  he  has  shown  that  he  neither 
understands  nor  yet  is  willing  to  be  taught  the  condition  of  this  country. 
From  what  I  have  been  able  to  collect,  Samoans  are  indignant  because 
the  thing  was  decided  between  the  King  and  President  without  consulta- 
tion with  the  native  Parliament.     The  thing  itself,  it  does  not  enter  in 

456 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

their  thoughts  to  call  in  question ;  they  receive  gratefully  a  fresh  lesson 
in  civilised  methods  and  civilised  justice;  a  day  may  come  when  they 
shall  put  that  lesson  in  practice  for  themselves ;  and  if  they  are  then  de- 
cried for  their  barbarity— as  they  will  surely  be— and  punished  for  it,  as 
is  highly  probable,  I  will  ask  candid  people  what  they  are  to  think? 
"  How  ?  "  they  will  say.  "  Your  own  white  people  intended  to  do  this, 
and  you  said  nothing.     We  do  it,  and  you  call  us  treacherous  savages!" 

This  is  to  suppose  the  story  false.  Suppose  it  true,  however ;  still  more, 
suppose  the  plan  had  been  carried  out.  Suppose  these  chiefs  to  have 
surrendered  to  the  white  man's  justice,  administered  or  not  by  a  brown 
judge ;  suppose  them  tried,  condemned,  confined  in  that  snare  of  a  jail, 
and  some  fine  night  their  mangled  limbs  cast  in  the  faces  of  their  coun- 
trymen :  1  leave  others  to  predict  the  consequences  of  such  an  object- 
lesson  in  the  arts  of  peace  and  the  administration  of  the  law.  The 
Samoans  are  a  mild  race,  but  their  patience  is  in  some  points  limited. 
Under  Captain  Brandeis  a  single  skirmish  and  the  death  of  a  few  youths 
sufficed  to  kindle  an  enduring  war  and  bring  on  the  ruin  of  the  Govern- 
ment. The  residents  have  no  desire  for  war,  and  they  deprecate  alto- 
gether a  war  embittered  from  the  beginning  by  atrocities.  Nor  can  they 
think  the  stakes  at  all  equal  between  themselves  and  Baron  Senfft,  He 
has  nothing  to  lose  but  a  situation ;  he  is  here  in  what  he  stands  in ;  he 
can  swarm  to-morrow  on  board  a  war-ship  and  be  off.  But  the  resi- 
dents have  some  of  them  sunk  capital  on  these  shores ;  some  of  them  are 
involved  in  extended  affairs;  they  are  tied  to  the  stake,  and  they  pro- 
test against  being  plunged  into  war  by  the  violence,  and  having  that  war 
rendered  more  implacable  by  the  preliminary  cruelties,  of  a  white  official. 

I  leave  entirely  upon  one  side  all  questions  of  morality ;  but  there  is 
still  one  point  of  expediency  on  which  I  must  touch.  The  old  native 
Government  (which  was  at  least  cheap)  failed  to  enforce  the  law,  and 
fell,  in  consequence,  into  the  manifold  troubles  which  have  made  the 
name  of  Samoa  famous.  The  enforcement  of  the  law— that  was  what 
was  required,  that  was  the  salvation  looked  for.  And  here  we  have  a 
Government  at  a  high  figure,  and  it  cannot  defend  its  own  jail,  and 
can  find  no  better  remedy  than  to  assassinate  its  prisoners.  What  we 
have  bought  at  this  enormous  increase  of  expenditure  is  the  change  from 
King  Log  to  King  Stork— from  the  man  who  failed  to  punish  petty  theft 
to  the  man  who  plots  the  destruction  of  his  own  jail  and  the  death  ol 
his  own  prisoners. 

457 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

On  the  return  of  the  Chief  Justice,  the  matter  will  be  brought  to  his 
attention ;  but  the  cure  of  our  troubles  must  come  from  home ;  it  is  from 
the  Great  Powers  that  we  look  for  deliverance.  They  sent  us  the  Presi- 
dent. Let  them  either  remove  the  man,  or  see  that  he  is  stringently 
instructed— instructed  to  respect  public  decency,  so  we  be  no  longer 
menaced  with  doings  worthy  of  a  revolutionary  committee ;  and  instructed 
to  respect  the  administration  of  the  law,  so  if  I  be  fined  a  dollar  to-mor- 
row for  fast  riding  in  Apia  street,  1  may  not  awake  next  morning  to  find 
my  sentence  increased  to  one  of  banishment  or  death  by  dynamite.— I 
am,  Sir,  your  obedient  servant,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

P.  S.,  October  14.— I  little  expected  fresh  developments  before  the 
mail  left.  But  the  unresting  President  still  mars  the  quiet  of  his  neighbours. 
Even  while  I  was  writing  the  above  lines,  Apia  was  looking  on  in  mere 
amazement  on  the  continuation  of  his  gambols.  A  white  man  had  written 
to  the  King,  and  the  King  had  answered  the  letter— crimes  against  Baron 
Senfft  von  Pilsach  and  (his  private  reading  of)  the  Berlin  Treaty.  He 
offered  to  resign— I  was  about  to  say  "accordingly,"  for  the  unexpected 
is  here  the  normal— from  the  presidency  of  the  municipal  board,  and  to 
retain  his  position  as  the  King's  adviser.  He  was  instructed  that  he  must 
resign  both,  or  neither ;  resigned  both ;  fell  out  with  the  Consuls  on  de- 
tails ;  and  is  now,  as  we  are  advised,  seeking  to  resile  from  his  resignations. 
Such  an  official  1  never  remember  to  have  read  of,  though  I  have  seen  the 
like,  from  across  the  footlights  and  the  orchestra,  evolving  in  similar  figures 
to  the  strains  of  Offenbach.  R.  L.  S. 

COPIES  OF  A  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN   CERTAIN 
RESIDENTS   OF    APIA    AND    BARON    SENFFT    VON    PILSACH 


September  28,  1891. 
Baron  Senfft  von  Pilsach. 

Sir,— We  are  requested  to  lay  the  enclosed  appeal  before  you,  and  to 
express  the  desire  of  the  signatories  to  meet  your  views  as  to  the  manner 
of  the  answer. 

Should  you  prefer  to  reply  by  word  of  mouth,  a  deputation  will  be 
ready  to  wait  upon  you  on  Thursday,  at  any  hour  you  may  please  to 
appoint. 

Should  you  prefer  to  reply  in  writing,  we  are  asked  only  to  impress 
458 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

upon  you  the  extreme  desire  of  the  signatories  that  no  time  should  be 
unnecessarily  lost. 

Should  you  condescend  in  either  of  the  ways  suggested  to  set  at  rest 
our  anxiety,  we  need  scarce  assure  you  that  the  step  will  be  received  with 
gratitude.— We  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir,  your  obedient  servants, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

E.  W.  GURR. 


{Enclosed  in  No.  /.) 

The  attention  of  the  President  of  the  Municipal  Council  is  respectfully 
directed  to  the  following  rumours : 

1.  That  at  his  suggestion,  or  with  his  authority,  dynamite  was  pur- 
chased, or  efforts  were  made  to  procure  dynamite,  and  the  use  of  an 
electrical  machine  was  secured,  or  attempted  to  be  obtained. 

2.  That  this  was  for  the  purpose  of  undermining,  or  pretending  to 
undermine,  the  jail  in  which  the  Manono  prisoners  were  confined. 

3.  That  notification  of  this  design  was  sent  to  the  friends  of  the  prisoners. 

4.  That  a  threat  of  blowing  up  the  jail  and  the  prisoners,  in  the  event 
of  an  attempted  rescue,  was  made. 

Upon  all  and  upon  each  of  these  points  severally  the  white  residents 
anxiously  expect  and  respectfully  beg  information. 

It  is  suggested  for  the  President's  consideration  that  rumours  uncor- 
rected or  unexplained  acquire  almost  the  force  of  admitted  truth. 

That  any  want  of  confidence  between  the  governed  and  the  Govern- 
ment must  be  fruitful  in  loss  to  both. 

That  the  rumours  in  their  present  form  tend  to  damage  the  white  races  in 
the  native  mind,  and  to  influence  for  the  worse  the  manners  of  the  Samoans. 

And  that  the  President  alone  is  in  a  position  to  deny,  to  explain,  or  to 
correct  these  rumours. 

Upon  these  grounds  the  undersigned  ask  to  be  excused  for  any  infor- 
mality in  their  address,  and  they  hope  and  humbly  pray  that  the  President 
will  accept  the  occasion  here  presented,  and  take  early  and  effectual  means 
to  inform  and  reassure  the  whites,  and  to  relieve  them  from  possible  mis- 
judgment  on  the  part  of  the  Samoans. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

E.  W.   GURR. 

(/ind  nine  other  signatures.) 
459 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 


III 

/Ipia,  September  ^o,  1891. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Escl.,  E.  W.  Gurr,  Esq_. 

Dear  Sirs,— Thanking  you  for  your  kind  letter  dated  28th  inst.,  which 
I  received  yesterday,  together  with  the  address  in  question,  I  beg  to  in- 
form you  that  I  am  going  to  answer  the  address  in  writing  as  soon  as 
possible.— I  have  the  honour  to  be,  dear  Sirs,  your  obedient  servant, 

Senfft. 

IV 

Apia,  October  2,  1891. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Esq_.,  E.  W.  Gurr,  Escl. 

Gentlemen, — I  have  the  honour  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  an  address 
without  date  which  has  been  signed  by  you  and  some  other  foreign  resi- 
dents and  handed  to  me  on  the  29th  of  September. 

In  this  address  my  attention  is  directed  to  some  rumours,  specified 
therein,  concerning  which  I  am  informed  that  "  upon  all  and  upon  each 
of  these  points  severally  the  white  residents  anxiously  expect  and  respect- 
fully beg  information." 

Generally,  I  beg  to  state  that,  with  a  view  of  successfully  performing 
my  official  duties,  I  believe  it  is  advisable  for  me  to  pay  no  attention  to 
any  anonymous  rumour. 

Further,  I  cannot  forbear  expressing  my  astonishment  that  in  speaking 
to  me  so  seriously  in  the  name  of  "  the  white  residents  "  the  subscribers 
of  the  address  have  deemed  it  unnecessary  to  acquaint  me  with  their  au- 
thorisation for  doing  so.  This  omission  is  by  no  means  a  mere  informality. 
There  are  white  residents  who  in  my  presence  have  commented  upon  the 
rumours  in  question  in  a  manner  directly  opposed  to  the  meaning  of  the 
address. 

This  fact  alone  will  justify  me  in  objecting  to  the  truth  of  the  above- 
quoted  statement  so  prominently  set  forth  and  so  positively  affirmed  in 
the  address.  It  will  also  justify  me  in  abstaining  from  a  reply  to  the 
further  assertions  of  gentlemen  who,  in  apostrophising  me,  care  so  little 
for  the  correctness  of  the  facts  they  deal  with. 

If,  in  consequence,  according  to  the  apprehensions  laid  down  in  the 
address,  those  unexplained  rumours  will  "  damage  the  white  races  in  the 
native  mind,"  I  think  the  signing  parties  will  then  remember  that  there 
are  public  authorities  in  Samoa  officially  and  especially  charged  with  the 

460 


LETTERS  TO  LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

protection  of  "the  white  residents."  If  they  present  to  them  their  com- 
plaints and  their  wishes  I  have  no  doubt  by  so  doing  they  will  get  all 
information  they  may  require. 

1  ask  you,  Gentlemen,  to  communicate  this  answer  to  the  parties  having 
signed  the  address  in  question.— I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Gentlemen, 
your  obedient  servant,  Frhr.  Senfft  von  Pilsach. 

V 

October  9,  /891. 

The  signatories  of  the  address  are  in  receipt  of  the  President's  favour 
under  date  October  2.  Much  of  his  answer  is  occupied  in  dealing  with  a 
point  foreign  to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  in  itself  surprising  to  the  signa- 
tories. Their  address  was  an  appeal  for  information  on  specific  points  and 
an  appeal  from  specific  persons,  who  correctly  described  themselves  as 
"white  residents,"  "the  undersigned,"  and  in  the  accompanying  letter  as 
the  "signatories."  They  were  so  far  from  seeking  to  collect  evidence  in 
private  that  they  applied  frankly  ana  directly  to  the  person  accused  for 
explanation ;  and  so  far  from  seeking  to  multiply  signatures  or  promote 
scandal  that  they  kept  the  paper  strictly  to  themselves.  They  see  with 
regret  that  the  President  has  failed  to  appreciate  this  delicacy.  They 
see  with  sorrow  and  surprise  that,  in  answer  to  a  communication  which 
they  believe  to  have  been  temperately  and  courteously  worded,  the 
President  has  thought  fit  to  make  an  imputation  on  their  honesty.  The 
trick  of  which  he  would  seem  to  accuse  them  would  have  been  useless, 
and  even  silly,  if  attempted ;  and  on  a  candid  re-examination  of  the  address 
and  the  accompanying  letter,  the  President  will  doubtless  see  fit  to  recall 
the  imputation. 

By  way  of  answer  to  the  questions  asked  the  signatories  can  find  no- 
thing but  what  seems  to  be  a  recommendation  to  them  to  apply  to  their 
Consuls  for  "  protection."  It  was  not  protection  they  asked,  but  infor- 
mation. It  was  not  a  sense  of  fear  that  moved  them,  but  a  sense  of 
shame.  It  is  their  misfortune  that  they  cannot  address  the  President  in 
his  own  language,  or  they  would  not  now  require  to  explain  that  the 
words  "tend  to  damage  the  white  races  in  the  native  mind,"  quoted  and 
misapplied  by  the  President,  do  not  express  any  fear  of  suffering  by  the 
hands  of  the  Samoans,  but  in  their  good  opinion,  and  were  not  the  ex- 
pression of  any  concern  for  the  duration  of  peace,  but  of  a  sense  of  shame 
under  what  they  conceived  to  be  disgraceful  imputations.     While  agree- 

461 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

ing  generally  with  the  President's  expressed  sentiment  as  to  "  anonymous 
rumours,"  they  feel  that  a  line  has  to  be  drawn.  Certain  rumours  they 
would  not  suffer  to  remain  uncontradicted  for  an  hour.  It  was  natural, 
therefore,  that  when  they  heard  a  man  of  their  own  white  race  accused 
of  conspiring  to  blow  up  the  jail  and  the  prisoners  who  were  there  under 
Ihe  safeguard  of  his  honour,  they  should  attribute  to  the  accused  a  similar 
impatience  to  be  justified;  and  it  is  with  a  sense  of  painful  surprise  that 
they  find  themselves  to  have  been  mistaken. 

{Signatures  as  to  No.  //.) 

VI 

y4pia,  October  p,  1891. 

Gentlemen,— Being  in  receipt  of  your  communication  under  to-day's 
date,  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  that  I  have  undertaken  the  re-ex- 
amination of  your  first  address,  which  you  believe  would  induce  me  to 
recall  the  answer  I  have  given  on  the  2nd  inst. 

From  this  re-examination  I  have  learned  again  that  your  appeal  begins 
with  the  following  statement : 

"  Upon  all  and  upon  each  of  these  points  severally  the  white  residents 
anxiously  expect  and  respectfully  beg  information." 

I  have  called  this  statement  a  seriously  speaking  to  me  in  the  name  of 
the  white  residents,  and  I  have  objected  to  the  truth  of  that  statement. 

If  after  a  "candid  re-examination  "  of  the  matter  from  your  part  you 
may  refute  me  in  either  or  both  points,  I  shall  be  glad,  indeed,  in  recall- 
ing my  answer. 

At  present  I  beg  to  say  that  I  see  no  reason  for  your  supposing  I  mis- 
understood your  expression  of  damaging  the  white  races  in  the  native 
mind,  unless  you  have  no  other  notion  of  protection  than  that  applying 
to  the  body. 

Concerning  the  assertion  contained  in  the  last  clause  of  your  second 
address,  that  five  Samoan  prisoners  having  been  sentenced  by  a  Samoan 
judge  for  destroying  houses  were  in  the  jail  of  the  Samoan  Government 
"under  the  safeguard  of  my  honour,"  I  ask  for  your  permission  to  rec- 
ommend this  statement  also  and  especially  to  your  re-examination.— I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  Gentlemen,  your  obedient  servant, 

Frhr.  Senfft  von  Pilsach. 


462 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 
III 

TO   THE   EDITOR  OF  THE   "  TIMES " 

Samoa,  April  9,  1892. 

Sir,— A  sketch  of  our  latest  difficulty  in  Samoa  will  be  interesting,  at 
least  to  lawyers. 

In  the  Berlin  General  Act  there  is  one  point  on  which,  from  the  earliest 
moment,  volunteer  interpreters  have  been  divided.  The  revenue  arising 
from  the  customs  was  held  by  one  party  to  belong  to  the  Samoan  Govern- 
ment, by  another  to  the  municipality ;  and  the  dispute  was  at  last  decided 
in  favour  of  the  municipality  by  Mr.  Cedercrantz,  Chief  Justice.  The 
decision  was  not  given  in  writing ;  but  it  was  reported  by  at  least  one  of 
the  Consuls  to  his  Government,  it  was  of  public  notoriety,  it  is  not  denied, 
and  it  was  at  once  implicitly  acted  on  by  the  parties.  Before  that  deci- 
sion, the  revenue  from  customs  was  suffered  to  accumulate;  ever  since, 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  Chief  Justice,  and  with  the  daily  countenance  of 
the  President,  it  has  been  preceived,  administered,  and  spent  by  the  muni- 
cipality. It  is  the  function  of  the  Chief  Justice  to  interpret  the  Berlin  Act ; 
its  sense  was  thus  supposed  to  be  established  beyond  cavil;  those  who 
were  dissatisfied  wnth  the  result  conceived  their  only  recourse  lay  in  a 
prayer  to  the  Powers  to  have  the  treaty  altered ;  and  such  a  prayer  was, 
but  the  other  day,  proposed,  supported,  and  finally  negatived,  in  a  public 
meeting. 

About  a  year  has  gone  by  ance  the  decision,  and  the  state  of  the 
Samoan  Government  has  been  daily  growing  more  precarious.  Taxes 
have  not  been  paid,  and  the  Government  has  not  ventured  to  enforce 
them.  Fresh  taxes  have  fallen  due,  and  the  Government  has  not  ventured 
to  call  for  them.  Salaries  were  running  on,  and  that  of  the  Chief  Justice 
alone  amounts  to  a  considerable  figure  for  these  islands ;  the  coffers  had 
fallen  low,  at  last  it  was  believed  they  were  quite  empty,  no  resource  seemed 
left,  and  bystanders  waited  with  a  smiling  curiosity  for  the  wheels  to  stop. 
I  should  add,  to  explain  the  epithet  "smiling,"  that  the  Government  has 
proved  a  still-born  child ;  and  except  for  some  spasmodic  movements 
which  I  have  already  made  the  subject  of  remark  in  your  columns,  it  may 
be  said  to  have  done  nothing  but  pay  salaries. 

In  this  state  of  matters,  on  March  28,  the  President  of  the  Council, 
Baron  Senfft  von  Pilsach,  was  suddenly  and  privately  supplied  by  Mr. 

463 


LETTERS   FROM   SAMOA 

Cedercrantz  with  a  written  judgment,  reversing  the  verbal  and  public  de- 
cision of  a  year  before.  By  what  powers  of  law  was  this  result  attained  ? 
And  how  was  the  point  brought  again  before  his  Honour  ?  I  feel  I  shall 
here  strain  the  credulity  of  your  readers,  but  our  authority  is  the  President 
in  person.  The  suit  was  brought  by  himself  in  his  capacity  (perhaps  an 
imaginary  one)  of  King's  adviser ;  it  was  defended  by  himself  in  his  capa- 
city of  President  of  the  Council;  no  notice  had  been  given,  the  parties 
were  not  summoned,  they  were  advised  neither  of  the  trial  nor  the  judg- 
ment; so  far  as  can  be  learned,  two  persons  only  met  and  parted— the 
first  was  the  plaintiff  and  defendant  rolled  in  one,  the  other  was  a  judge 
who  had  decided  black  a  year  ago,  and  had  now  intimated  a  modest 
willingness  to  decide  white. 

But  it  is  possible  to  fo  low  more  closely  these  original  proceedings. 
Baron  von  Pilsach  sat  down  (he  told  us)  in  his  capacity  of  adviser  to  the 
King,  and  wrote  to  himse'.f,  in  his  capacity  of  President  of  the  Council, 
an  eloquent  letter  of  reprimand  three  pages  long ;  an  unknown  English 
artist  clothed  it  for  him  in  good  language ;  and  nothing  remained  but  to 
have  it  signed  by  King  Malietoa,  to  whom  it  was  attributed.  "  So  long 
as  he  knows  how  to  sign!  "—a  white  official  is  said  thus  to  have  summed 
up,  with  a  shrug,  the  qualifications  necessary  in  a  Samoan  king.  It  was 
signed  accordingly,  though  whether  the  King  knew  what  he  was  signing 
is  matter  of  debate ;  and  thus  regularised,  it  was  forwarded  to  the  Chief 
Justice  enclosed  in  a  letter  of  adhesion  from  the  President.  Such  as  they 
were,  these  letters  appear  to  have  been  the  pleadings  on  which  the  Chief 
Justice  proceeded ;  such  as  they  were,  they  seem  to  have  been  the  docu- 
ments in  this  unusual  cause. 

Suppose  an  unfortunate  error  to  have  been  made,  suppose  a  reversal  of 
the  Court's  finding  and  the  year's  policy  to  have  become  immediately 
needful,  wisdom  would  indicate  an  extreme  frankness  of  demeanour.  And 
our  two  officials  preferred  a  policy  of  irritating  dissimulation.  While  the 
revolution  was  being  prepared  behind  the  curtain,  the  President  was  hold- 
ing night  sessions  of  the  municipal  council.  What  was  the  business? 
No  other  than  to  prepare  an  ordinance  regulating  those  very  customs 
which  he  was  secretly  conspiring  to  withdraw  from  their  control.  And 
it  was  a  piece  of  duplicity  of  a  similar  nature  which  first  awoke  the  echoes 
of  Apia  by  its  miscarriage.  The  council  had  sent  up  for  the  approval  of 
the  Consular  Board  a  project  of  several  bridges,  one  of  which,  that  of  the 
Vaisingano,  was  of  chief  importance  to  the  town.     To  sanction  so  much 

464 


LETTERS   TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

fresh  expense,  at  the  very  moment  when,  to  his  secret  knowledge,  the 
municipality  was  to  be  left  bare  of  funds,  appeared  to  one  of  the  Consuls 
an  unworthy  act ;  and  the  proposal  was  accordingly  disallowed.  The  peo- 
ple of  Apia  are  extremely  swift  to  guess.  No  sooner  was  the  Vaisingano 
bridge  denied  them  than  they  leaped  within  a  measurable  distance  of 
the  truth.  It  was  remembered  that  the  Chief  Justice  had  but  recently 
(this  time  by  a  decision  regularly  obtained)  placed  the  municipal  funds  at 
the  President's  mercy ;  talk  ran  high  of  collusion  between  the  two  officials ; 
it  was  rumoured  the  safe  had  been  already  secretly  drawn  upon;  the 
newspaper  being  at  this  juncture  suddenly  and  rather  mysteriously  sold, 
it  was  rumoured  it  had  been  bought  for  the  officials  with  municipal  money, 
and  the  Apians  crowded  in  consequence  to  the  municipal  meeting  on 
April  I ,  with  minds  already  heated. 

The  President  came  on  his  side  armed  with  the  secret  judgment ;  and 
the  hour  being  now  come,  he  unveiled  his  work  of  art  to  the  municipal 
councillors.  On  the  strength  of  the  Chief  Justice's  decision,  to  his  know- 
ledge, and  with  the  daily  countenance  of  the  President,  they  had  for 
twelve  months  received  and  expended  the  revenue  from  customs.  They 
learned  now  that  this  was  wrong ;  they  learned  not  only  that  they  were 
to  receive  no  more,  but  that  they  must  refund  what  they  had  already 
spent;  and  the  total  sum  amounting  to  about  $25,000,  and  there  being 
less  than  $20,000  in  the  treasury,  they  learned  that  they  were  bankrupt. 
And  with  the  next  breath  the  President  reassured  them ;  time  was  to 
be  given  to  these  miserable  debtors,  and  the  King  in  his  clemency  would 
even  advance  them  from  their  own  safe— now  theirs  no  longer— a  loan  of 
$3000  against  current  expenses.  If  the  municipal  council  of  Apia  be  far 
from  an  ideal  body,  at  least  it  makes  roads  and  builds  bridges,  at  least 
it  does  something  to  justify  its  existence  and  reconcile  the  ratepayer  to 
the  rates.  This  was  to  cease :  all  the  funds  husbanded  for  this  end  were 
to  be  transferred  to  the  Government  at  Mulinuu,  which  has  never  done 
anything  to  mention  but  pay  salaries,  and  of  which  men  have  long  ceased 
to  expect  anything  else  but  that  it  shall  continue  to  pay  salaries  till  it  die 
of  inanition.  Let  us  suppose  this  raid  on  the  municipal  treasury  to  have 
been  just  and  needful.  It  is  plain,  even  if  introduced  in  the  most  con- 
ciliatory manner,  it  could  never  have  been  welcome.  And,  as  it  was,  the 
sting  was  in  the  manner— in  the  secrecy  and  the  surprise,  in  the  dissimu- 
lation, the  dissonant  decisions,  the  appearance  of  collusion  between  the 
officials,  and  the  offer  of  a  loan  too  small  to  help.     Bitter  words  were 

46^^ 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

spoken  at  the  council-table ;  the  public  joined  with  shouts ;  it  was  openly 
proposed  to  overpower  the  President  and  seize  the  treasury  key.  Baron 
von  Pilsach  possesses  the  redeeming  rudimentary  virtue  of  courage.  It 
required  courage  to  come  at  all  on  such  an  errand  to  those  he  had  de- 
ceived; and  amidst  violent  voices  and  menacing  hands  he  displayed  a 
constancy  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  The  council  broke  tumultuously 
up ;  the  inhabitants  crowded  to  a  public  meeting ;  the  Consuls,  acquainted 
with  the  alarming  effervescency  of  feeling,  communicated  their  willing- 
ness to  meet  the  municipal  councillors  and  arrange  a  compromise;  and 
the  inhabitants  renewed  by  acclamation  the  mandate  of  their  representa- 
tives. The  same  night  these  sat  in  council  with  the  Consular  Board,  and 
a  modus  vivendi  was  agreed  upon,  which  was  rejected  the  next  morn- 
ing by  the  President. 

The  representations  of  the  Consuls  had,  however,  their  effect ;  and  when 
the  council  met  again  on  April  6,  Baron  von  Pilsach  was  found  to  have 
entirely  modified  his  attitude.  The  bridge  over  the  Vaisingano  was  con- 
ceded ;  the  sum  of  $3000  offered  to  the  council  was  increased  to  $9000, 
about  one  half  of  the  existing  funds ;  the  Samoan  Government,  which 
was  to  profit  by  the  customs,  now  agreed  to  bear  the  expenses  of  collec- 
tion ;  the  President,  while  refusing  to  be  limited  to  a  specific  figure,  prom- 
ised an  anxious  parsimony  in  the  Government  expenditure,  admitted  his 
recent  conduct  had  been  of  a  nature  to  irritate  the  councillors,  and  frankly 
proposed  it  should  be  brought  under  the  notice  of  the  Powers.  I  should 
not  be  a  fair  reporter  if  1  did  not  praise  his  bearing.  In  the  midst  of  men 
whom  he  had  grossly  deceived,  and  who  had  recently  insulted  him  in 
return,  he  behaved  himself  with  tact  and  temper.  And  largely  in  conse- 
quence his  modus  vivendi  was  accepted  under  protest,  and  the  matter  in 
dispute  referred  without  discussion  to  the  Powers. 

I  would  like  to  refer  for  one  moment  to  my  former  letter.  Tho  Manono 
prisoners  were  solemnly  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprisonment ;  and,  by 
some  unexplained  and  secret  process,  the  sentence  was  increased  to  one 
of  banishment.  The  fact  seems  to  have  rather  amused  the  Governments 
at  home.  It  did  not  at  all  amuse  us  here  on  the  spot.  But  we  sought 
consolation  by  remembering  that  the  President  was  a  layman,  and  the 
Chief  Justice  had  left  the  islands  but  the  day  before.  Let  Mr.  Cedercrantz 
return,  we  thought,  and  Arthur  would  be  come  again.  Well,  Arthur 
is  come.  And  now  we  begin  to  think  he  was  perhaps  an  approving, 
if  an  absent,  party  to  the  scandal.     For  do  we  not  find,  in  the  case  ot 

a66 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

the  municipal  treasury,  the  same  disquieting  features?  A  decision  is 
publicly  delivered,  it  is  acted  on  for  a  year,  and  by  some  secret  and  in- 
explicable process  we  find  it  suddenly  reversed.  We  are  supposed  to 
be  governed  by  English  law.  Is  this  English  law  ?  Is  it  law  at  all  ? 
Does  it  permit  a  state  of  society  in  which  a  citizen  can  live  and  act  with 
confidence  ?  And  when  we  are  asked  by  natives  to  explain  these  pecu- 
liarities of  white  man's  government  and  white  man's  justice,  in  what 
form  of  words  are  we  to  answer  ? 

yipril  12. 

Fresh  news  reaches  me ;  I  have  once  again  to  admire  the  accuracy  of 
lumour  in  Apia,  and  that  which  I  had  passed  over  with  a  reference  be- 
comes the  head  and  front  of  our  contention.  The  Samoa  Times  was 
nominally  purchased  by  a  gentleman  who,  whatever  be  his  other  recom- 
mendations, was  notoriously  ill  off.  There  was  paid  down  for  it  ;^6oo 
in  gold,  a  huge  sum  of  ready  money  for  Apia,  above  all  in  gold,  and  all 
men  wondered  where  it  came  from.  It  is  this  which  has  been  discovered : 
The  wrapper  of  each  rouleau  was  found  to  be  signed  by  Mr.  Martin, 
collector  for  the  municipality  as  well  as  for  the  Samoan  Government,  and 
countersigned  by  Mr.  Savile,  his  assistant.  In  other  words,  the  money 
had  left  either  the  municipal  or  the  Government  safe. 

The  position  of  the  President  is  thus  extremely  exposed.  His  accounts 
up  to  January  i  are  in  the  hands  of  auditors.  The  next  term  of  March 
31  is  already  past,  and  although  the  natural  course  has  been  repeatedly 
suggested  to  him,  he  has  never  yet  permitted  the  verification  of  the  bal- 
ance in  his  safe.  The  case  would  appear  less  strong  against  the  Chief 
Justice.  Yet  a  month  has  not  elapsed  since  he  placed  the  funds  at  the 
disposal  of  the  President,  on  the  avowed  ground  that  the  population  of 
Apia  was  unfit  to  be  entrusted  with  its  own  affairs.  And  the  very  week 
of  the  purchase  he  reversed  his  own  previous  decision  and  liberated  his 
colleague  from  the  last  remaining  vestige  of  control.  Beyond  the  extent 
of  these  judgments,  I  doubt  if  this  astute  personage  will  be  found  to  have 
committed  himself  in  black  and  white ;  and  the  more  foolhardy  President 
may  thus  be  left  in  the  top  of  the  breach  alone. 

Let  it  be  explained  or  apportioned  as  it  may,  this  additional  scandal  is 
felt  to  have  overfilled  the  measure.  It  may  be  argued  that  the  President 
has  great  tact  and  the  Chief  Justice  a  fund  of  philosophy.  Give  us  instead 
a  judge  who  shall  proceed  according  to  the  forms  of  justice,  and  a  trea- 
surer who  shall  permit  the  verification  of  his  balances.     Surely  there  can 

467 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

be  found  among  the  millions  of  Europe  two  frank  and  honest  men,  one 
of  whom  shall  be  acquainted  with  English  law,  and  the  other  possess  the 
ordinary  virtues  of  a  clerk,  over  whose  heads,  in  the  exercise  of  their  duties, 
six  months  may  occasionally  pass  without  painful  disclosures  and  dangerous 
scandals ;  who  shall  not  weary  us  with  their  surprises  and  intrigues ;  who 
shall  not  amaze  us  with  their  lack  of  penetration ;  who  shall  not,  in  the 
hour  of  their  destitution,  seem  to  have  diverted  ;^6oo  of  public  money 
for  the  purchase  of  an  inconsiderable  sheet,  or  at  a  time  when  eight  prov- 
inces of  discontented  natives  threaten  at  any  moment  to  sweep  their  in- 
effective Government  into  the  sea  to  have  sought  safety  and  strength  in 
gagging  the  local  press  of  Apia.  If  it  be  otherwise— if  we  cannot  be 
relieved,  if  the  Powers  are  satisfied  with  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Cedercrantz 
and  Baron  Senfft  von  Pilsach ;  if  these  were  sent  here  with  the  under- 
standing that  they  should  secretly  purchase,  perhaps  privately  edit,  a  little 
sheet  of  two  pages,  issued  from  a  crazy  wooden  building  at  the  mission 
gate;  if  it  were,  indeed,  intended  that,  for  this  important  end,  they 
should  divert  (as  it  seems  they  have  done)  public  funds  and  affront  all  the 
forms  of  law— we  whites  can  only  bow  the  head.  We  are  here  quite 
helpless.  If  we  would  complain  of  Baron  Pilsach,  it  can  only  be  to  Mr. 
Cedercrantz ;  if  we  would  complain  of  Mr.  Cedercrantz,  and  the  Powers 
will  not  hear  us,  the  circle  is  complete.  A  nightly  guard  surrounds  and 
protects  their  place  of  residence,  while  the  house  of  the  King  is  cynically 
left  without  the  pickets.  Secure  from  interference,  one  utters  the  voice 
of  the  law,  the  other  moves  the  hands  of  authority ;  and  now  they  seem 
to  have  sequestered  in  the  course  of  a  single  week  the  only  available  funds 
and  the  only  existing  paper  in  the  islands. 

But  there  is  one  thing  they  forget.  It  is  not  the  whites  who  menace 
the  duration  of  their  Government,  and  it  is  only  the  whites  who  read  the 
newspaper.  Mataafa  sits  hard  by  in  his  armed  camp  and  sees.  He  sees 
the  weakness,  he  counts  the  scandals  of  their  Government.  He  sees  his 
rival  and  "  brother  "  sitting  disconsidered  at  their  doors,  like  Lazarus  be- 
fore the  house  of  Dives,  and,  if  he  is  not  very  fond  of  his  "brother,"  he 
is  very  scrupulous  of  native  dignities.  He  has  seen  his  friends  menaced 
with  midnight  destruction  in  the  Government  jail,  and  deported  without 
form  of  law.  He  is  not  himself  a  talker,  and  his  thoughts  are  hid  from 
us ;  but  what  is  said  by  his  more  hasty  partisans  we  know.  On  March 
29,  the  day  after  the  Chief  Justice  signed  the  secret  judgment,  three  days 
before  it  was  made  public,  and  while  the  purchase  of  the  newspaper  was 

468 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

yet  in  treaty,  a  native  orator  stood  up  in  an  assembly.  "  Who  asked  the 
Great  Powers  to  make  laws  for  us ;  to  bring  strangers  here  to  rule  us  ?  " 
he  cried.  "  We  want  no  white  officials  to  bind  us  in  the  bondage  of  tax- 
ation." Here  is  the  changed  spirit  which  these  gentlemen  have  produced 
by  a  misgovernment  of  fifteen  months.  Here  is  their  peril,  which  no 
purchase  of  newspapers  and  no  subsequent  editorial  suppressions  can  avert. 
It  may  be  asked  if  it  be  still  time  to  do  anything.  It  is,  indeed, 
already  late;  and  these  gentlemen,  arriving  in  a  golden  moment,  have 
fatally  squandered  opportunity  and  perhaps  fatally  damaged  white  pres- 
tige. Even  the  whites  themselves  they  have  not  only  embittered, 
but  corrupted.  We  were  pained  the  other  day  when  our  municipal 
councillors  refused,  by  a  majority,  to  make  the  production  of  invoices 
obligatory  at  the  Custom-house.  Yet  who  shall  blame  them,  when 
the  Chief  Justice,  with  a  smallness  of  capacity  at  which  all  men  won- 
dered, refused  to  pay,  and,  I  believe,  still  withholds,  the  duties  on  his 
imports  ?  He  was  above  the  law,  being  the  head  of  it ;  and  this  was 
how  he  preached  by  example.  He  refused  to  pay  his  customs ;  the  white 
councillors,  following  in  his  wake,  refuse  to  take  measures  to  enforce  them 
against  others;  and  the  natives,  following  in  his  wake,  refuse  to  pay 
their  taxes.  These  taxes  it  may,  perhaps,  be  never  possible  to  raise  again 
directly.  Taxes  have  never  been  popular  in  Samoa ;  yet  in  the  golden 
moment  when  this  Government  began  its  course,  a  majority  of  Samoans 
paid  them.  Every  province  should  have  seen  some  part  of  that  money 
expended  in  its  bounds ;  every  nerve  should  have  been  strained  to  interest, 
and  gratify  the  natives  in  the  manner  of  its  expenditure.  It  has  been 
spent  instead  on  Mulinuu,  to  pay  four  white  officials,  two  of  whom  came 
in  the  suite  of  the  Chief  Justice,  and  to  build  a  so-called  Government 
House,  in  which  the  President  resides,  and  the  very  name  of  taxes  is  be- 
come abhorrent.  What  can  still  be  done,  and  what  must  be  done  imme- 
diately, is  to  give  us  a  new  Chief  Justice— a  lawyer,  a  man  of  honour,  a 
man  who  will  not  commit  himself  to  one  side,  whether  in  politics  or  in 
private  causes,  and  who  shall  not  have  the  appearance  of  trying  to  coin 
money  at  every  joint  of  our  affairs.  So  much  the  better  if  he  be  a  man 
of  talent,  but  we  do  not  ask  so  much.  With  an  ordinary  appreciation  of 
law,  an  ordinary  discretion,  and  ordinary  generosity,  he  may  still,  in  the 
course  of  time,  and  with  good  fortune,  restore  confidence  and  repair  the 
breaches  in  the  prestige  of  the  whites.  As  for  the  President,  there  is  much 
discussion.     Some  think  the  office  is  superfluous,  still  more  the  salary  to 

469 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

be  excessive ;  some  regard  the  present  man,  who  is  young  and  personally 
pleasing,  as  a  tool  and  scapegoat  for  another,  and  these  are  tempted  to 
suppose  that,  with  a  new  and  firm  Chief  Justice,  he  might  yet  redeem 
his  character.  He  would  require  at  least  to  clear  himself  of  the  affair  of 
the  rouleaux,  or  all  would  be  against  him.— I  am,  Sir,  your  obedient 
servant,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 

IV 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "TIMES'" 

Samoa,  June  22,  i8<)2. 

Sir,— I  read  in  a  New  Zealand  paper  that  you  published  my  last  with 
misgiving.  The  writer  then  goes  on  to  remind  me  that  I  am  a  novelist, 
and  to  bid  me  return  to  my  romances  and  leave  the  affairs  of  Samoa 
to  subeditors  and  distant  quarters  of  the  world.  "We,  in  common 
with  other  journals,  have  correspondents  in  Samoa,"  he  complains,  "and 
yet  we  have  no  news  from  them  of  the  curious  conspiracy  which  Mr. 
Stevenson  appears  to  have  unearthed,  and  which,  if  it  had  any  real  ex- 
istence, would  be  known  to  everybody  on  the  island."  As  this  is  the 
only  voice  which  has  yet  reached  me  from  beyond  the  seas,  I  am  con- 
strained to  make  some  answer.  But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that, 
though  you  may  perhaps  have  been  alone  to  publish,  I  have  been  alone 
to  write.  The  same  story  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  three  Governments 
from  their  respective  Consuls.  Not  only  so,  but  the  complaint  to  the 
municipal  council,  drawn  by  two  able  solicitors,  has  been  likewise  laid 
before  them. 

This  at  least  is  public,  and  I  may  say  notorious :  The  solicitors  were 
authorised  to  proceed  with  their  task  at  a  public  meeting.  The  President 
(for  I  was  there  and  heard  him)  approved  the  step,  though  he  refrained 
from  voting.  But  he  seemed  to  have  entertained  a  hope  of  burking,  or, 
at  least,  indefinitely  postponing,  the  whole  business,  and,  when  the  meet- 
ing was  over  and  its  proceedings  had  been  approved  (as  is  necessary)  by 
the  Consular  Board,  he  neglected  to  notify  the  two  gentlemen  appointed 
of  that  approval.  In  a  large  city  the  trick  might  have  succeeded  for  a 
time ;  in  a  village  like  Apia,  where  all  news  leaks  out  and  the  King  meets 
the  cobbler  daily,  it  did  no  more  than  to  advertise  his  own  artfulness.  And 
the  next  he  learned,  the  case  for  the  municipal  council  had  been  prepared, 
approved  by  the  Consuls,  and  despatched  to  the  Great  Powers.  I  am 
accustomed  to  have  my  word  doubted  in  this  matter,  and  must  here  look 

470 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

to  have  it  doubted  once  again.  But  the  fact  is  certain.  The  two  solici- 
tors (Messrs.  Carruthers  and  Cooper)  were  actually  cited  to  appear  before 
the  Chief  Justice  in  the  Supreme  Court.  I  have  seen  the  summons,  and 
the  summons  was  the  first  and  last  of  this  State  trial.  The  proceeding, 
instituted  in  an  hour  of  temper,  was,  in  a  moment  OT  reaction,  allowed 
to  drop. 

About  the  same  date  a  final  blow  befell  the  Government  of  Mulinuu. 
Let  me  remind  you,  Sir,  of  the  situation.  The  funds  of  the  municipality 
had  been  suddenly  seized,  on  what  appears  a  collusive  judgment,  by  the 
bankrupt  Government  of  Mulinuu.  The  paper,  the  organ  of  opposition, 
was  bought  by  a  man  of  straw ;  and  it  was  found  the  purchase-money 
had  been  paid  in  rouleaux  from  the  Government  safes.  The  Government 
consisted  of  two  men.  One,  the  President  and  treasurer,  had  a  ready 
means  to  clear  himself  and  dispose  for  ever  of  the  scandal— that  means, 
apart  from  any  scandal,  was  his  mere,  immediate  duty,— viz.,  to  have  his 
balance  verified.  And  he  has  refused  to  do  so,  and  he  still  refuses.  But 
the  other,  though  he  sits  abstruse,  must  not  think  to  escape  his  share  of 
blame.  He  holds  a  high  situation ;  he  is  our  chief  magistrate,  he  has 
heard  this  miserable  tale  of  the  rouleaux,  at  which  the  Consuls  looked  so 
black,  and  why  has  he  done  nothing  ?  When  he  found  that  the  case 
against  himself  and  his  colleague  had  gone  to  the  three  Powers  a  little  of 
the  suddenest,  he  could  launch  summonses  (which  it  seems  he  was  after- 
wards glad  to  disavow)  against  Messrs.  Cooper  and  Carruthers.  But 
then,  when  the  whole  island  murmured— then,  when  a  large  sum  which 
could  be  traced  to  the  Government  treasuries  was  found  figuring  in  the 
hands  of  a  man  of  straw— where  were  his  thunderbolts  then  ?  For  more 
than  a  month  the  scandal  has  hung  black  about  his  colleague ;  for  more 
than  a  month  he  has  sat  inert  and  silent;  for  more  than  a  month,  in 
consequence,  the  last  spark  of  trust  in  him  has  quite  died  out. 

It  was  in  these  circumstances  that  the  Government  of  Mulinuu  ap- 
proached the  municipal  council  with  a  proposal  to  levy  fresh  taxes  from 
the  whites.  It  was  in  these  circumstances  that  the  municipal  council 
answered,  No.  Public  works  have  ceased,  the  destination  of  public 
moneys  is  kept  secret,  and  the  municipal  council  resolved  to  stop  supplies. 

At  this,  it  seems,  the  Government  awoke  to  a  sense  of  their  position. 
The  natives  had  long  ceased  to  pay  them ;  now  the  whites  had  followed  suit. 
Destitution  had  succeeded  to  embarrassment.  And  they  made  haste  to  join 
with  themselves  another  who  did  not  share  in  their  unpopularity.     This 

47' 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

gentleman,  Mr.  Thomas  Maben,  Government  surveyor,  is  himself  deserv- 
edly popular,  and  the  office  created  for  him,  that  of  Secretary  of  State,  is 
one  in  which,  under  happier  auspices,  he  might  accomplish  much.  He  is 
promised  a  free  hand ;  he  has  succeeded  to,  and  is  to  exercise  entirely, 
those  vague  functions  claimed  by  the  President  under  his  style  of  adviser 
to  the  King.  It  will  be  well  if  it  is  found  to  be  so  in  the  field  of  prac- 
tice. It  will  be  well  if  Mr.  Maben  find  any  funds  left  for  his  not  exorbitant 
salary.  It  would  doubtless  have  been  better,  in  this  day  of  their  desti- 
tution and  in  the  midst  of  growing  Samoan  murmurs  against  the  high 
salaries  of  whites,  if  the  Government  could  have  fallen  on  some  expedient 
which  did  not  imply  another.  And  there  is  a  question  one  would  fain 
have  answered.  The  President  claims  to  hold  two  offices— that  of  ad- 
viser to  the  King,  that  of  President  of  the  Municipal  Council.  A  year  ago, 
in  the  time  of  the  dynamite  affair,  he  proposed  to  resign  the  second  and 
retain  his  whole  emoluments  as  adviser  to  the  King.  He  has  now  prac- 
tically resigned  the  first ;  and  we  wish  to  know  if  he  now  proposes  to 
retain  his  entire  salary  as  President  of  the  Council.— I  am,  etc., 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  TIMES  " 

j4pia,July  19,  1892. 
Sir,— I  am  at  last  in  receipt  of  your  article  upon  my  letter.  It  was  as 
I  supposed ;  you  had  a  difficulty  in  believing  the  events  recorded ;  and,  to 
my  great  satisfaction,  you  suggest  an  inquiry.  You  observe  the  marks  of 
passion  in  my  letter,  or  so  it  seems  to  you.  But  your  summary  shows 
me  that  I  have  not  failed  to  communicate  with  a  sufficient  clearness  the 
facts  alleged.  Passion  may  have  seemed  to  burn  in  my  words ;  it  has  not, 
at  least,  impaired  my  ability  to  record  with  precision  a  plain  tale.  The 
"  cold  language  "  of  Consular  reports  (which  you  say  you  would  prefer) 
is  doubtless  to  be  had  upon  inquiry  in  the  proper  quarter;  I  make  bold 
to  say  it  will  be  found  to  bear  me  out.  Of  the  law  case  for  the  muni- 
cipality I  can  speak  with  more  assurance;  for,  since  it  was  sent,  I  have 
been  shown  a  copy.  Its  language  is  admirably  cold,  yet  it  tells  (it  is 
possible  in  a  much  better  dialect)  the  same  remarkable  story.  But  all 
these  corroborations  sleep  in  official  keeping ;  and,  thanks  to  the  generosity 
with  which  you  have  admitted  me  to  your  columns,  I  stand  alone  before 
the  public.     It  is  my  prayer  that  this  may  cease  as  soon  as  possible. 

472 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

There  is  other  evidence  gone  home ;  let  that  be  produced.  Or  let  us  have 
(as  you  propose)  an  inquiry ;  give  to  the  Chief  Justice  and  the  President 
an  opportunity  to  clear  their  characters,  and  to  myself  that  liberty  (which 
I  am  so  often  requested  to  take)  of  returning  to  my  private  business.— I 
am,  Sir,  your  obedient  servant,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

VI 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OP  THE  "  TIMES  " 

Apia,  September  14,  1892. 

Sir,— The  Peninsula  of  Mulinuu  was  claimed  by  the  German  firm;  and 
in  case  their  claim  should  be  found  good,  they  had  granted  to  the  Samoan 
Government  an  option  to  buy  at  a  certain  figure.  Hereon  stand  the 
houses  of  our  officials,  in  particular  that  of  the  Chief  Justice.  It  has  long 
been  a  problem  here  whether  this  gentleman  paid  any  rent,  and  the  prob- 
lem is  now  solved;  the  Chief  Justice  of  Samoa  was  a  squatter.  On  the 
ground  that  the  Government  was  about  to  purchase  the  peninsula,  he 
occupied  a  house ;  on  the  ground  that  the  Germans  were  about  to  sell  it, 
he  refused  to  pay  them  any  rent.  The  firm  seemed  to  have  no  remedy 
but  to  summon  the  squatter  before  himself,  and  hear  over  again  from  the 
official  what  they  had  heard  already  from  the  disastrous  tenant.  But 
even  in  Samoa  an  ingenious  man,  inspired  by  annoyance,  may  find  means 
of  self-protection.  The  house  was  no  part  of  the  land,  nor  included  in 
the  option ;  the  firm  put  it  up  for  sale ;  and  the  Government,  under  pain 
of  seeing  the  Chief  Justice  houseless,  was  obliged  to  buy  it. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  German  claim  to  Mulinuu  was  passed  by  the  Land 
Commission  and  sent  on  to  the  Chief  Justice  on  the  17th  of  May.  He 
ended  by  confirming  the  report ;  but  though  his  judgment  bears  date  the 
9th  of  August,  it  was  not  made  public  till  the  1 5th.  So  far  as  we  are 
aware,  and  certainly  so  far  as  Samoa  has  profited  by  his  labours,  his 
Honour  may  be  said  to  have  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  attend  to  this  one 
piece  of  business ;  he  was  being  paid  to  do  so  at  the  rate  of  ;^i  00  a  month ; 
and  it  took  him  ninety  days,  or  about  as  long  as  it  took  Napoleon  to 
recapture  and  to  lose  again  his  empire.  But  better  late  than  never;  and 
the  Germans,  rejoicing  in  the  decision,  summoned  the  Government  to 
complete  the  purchase  or  to  waive  their  option.  There  was  again  a  delay 
in  answering,  for  the  policy  of  all  parts  of  this  extraordinary  Government 
is  on  one  model ;  and  when  the  answer  came  it  was  only  to  announce  a 
fresh  deception.     The  German  claim  had  passed  the  Land  Commission 

473 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

and  the  Supreme  Court,  it  was  good  against  objections,  but  it  appeared 
it  was  not  yet  good  for  registration,  and  must  still  be  resurveyed  by  a 
"Government  surveyor."  The  option  thus  continues  to  brood  over  the 
land  of  Mulinuu,  the  Government  to  squat  there  without  payment,  and 
the  German  firm  to  stand  helpless  and  dispossessed.  What  can  they 
do  ?  Their  adversary  is  their  only  judge.  I  hear  it  calculated  that  the 
present  state  of  matters  may  be  yet  spun  out  for  months,  at  the  end  of 
which  period  there  must  come  at  last  a  day  of  reckoning ;  and  the  pur- 
chase-money will  have  to  be  found  or  the  option  to  be  waived  and  the 
Government  to  flit  elsewhere.  As  for  the  question  cf  arrears  of  rent,  it 
will  be  in  judicious  hands,  and  his  Honour  may  be  trusted  to  deal  with 
it  in  a  manner  suitable  to  the  previous  history  of  the  case. 

But  why  (it  will  be  asked)  spin  out  by  these  excessive  methods  a  thread 
of  such  tenuity  ?  Why  go  to  such  lengths  for  four  months  longer  of  fal- 
lacious solvency  ?  I  expect  not  to  be  believed,  but  I  think  the  Govern- 
ment still  hopes.  A  war-ship,  under  a  hot-headed  captain,  might  be 
decoyed  into  hostilities;  the  taxes  might  begin  to  come  in  again;  the 
three  Powers  might  become  otherwise  engaged  and  the  little  stage  of 
Samoa  escape  observation— indeed,  I  know  not  what  they  hope,  but  they 
hope  something.  There  lives  on  in  their  breasts  a  remainder  coal  of 
ambition  still  unquenched.  Or  it  is  only  so  that  I  can  explain  a  late 
astonishing  sally  of  his  Honour's.  In  a  long  and  elaborate  judgment  he 
has  pared  the  nails,  and  indeed  removed  the  fingers,  of  his  only  rival, 
the  municipal  magistrate.  For  eighteen  months  he  has  seen  the  lower 
Court  crowded  with  affairs,  the  while  his  own  stood  unfrequented  like 
an  obsolete  churchyard.  He  may  have  remarked  with  envy  many  hundred 
cases  passing  through  his  rival's  hands,  cases  of  assault,  cases  of  larceny, 
ranging  in  the  last  four  months  from  2s.  up  to  ;^i  125. ;  or  he  may  have 
viewed  with  displeasure  that  despatch  of  business  which  was  characteristic 
of  the  Magistrate,  Mr.  Cooper.  An  end,  at  least,  has  been  made  of  these 
abuses ;  Mr.  Cooper  is  henceforth  to  draw  his  salary  for  the  minimum  of 
public  service;  and  all  larcenies  and  assaults,  however  trivial,  must  go, 
according  to  the  nationality  of  those  concerned,  before  the  Consular  01 
the  Supreme  Courts. 

To  this  portentous  judgment  there  are  two  sides— a  practical  and  legal. 
And  first  as  to  the  practical.  For  every  blow  struck  or  shilling  stolen  the 
parties  must  now  march  out  to  Mulinuu  and  place  themselves  at  the  mercy 
of  a  Court,  which  if  Hamlet  had  known,  he  would  have  referred  wdth 

474 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

more  emotion  to  the  law's  delays.  It  is  feared  they  will  not  do  so,  and 
that  crime  will  go  on  in  consequence  unpunished,  and  increased  by  in- 
dulgence. But  this  is  nothing.  The  Court  of  the  municipal  magistrate 
was  a  convenient  common-ground  and  clearing-house  tor  our  manifold 
nationalities.  It  has  now  been,  for  all  purpose  of  serious  utility,  abolished, 
and  the  result  is  distraction.  There  was  a  recent  trumpery  case,  heard 
by  Mr.  Cooper  amid  shouts  of  mirth.  It  resolved  itself  (if  I  remember 
rightly)  into  three  charges  of  assault  with  counter-charges,  and  three  of 
abusive  language  with  the  same;  and  the  parties  represented  only  two 
nationalities— a  small  allowance  for  Apia.  Yet  in  our  new  world,  since 
the  Chief  Justice's  decision,  this  vulgar  shindy  would  have  split  up  into 
six  several  suits  before  three  different  Courts ;  the  charges  must  have  been 
heard  by  one  judge,  the  counter-charges  by  another ;  the  whole  nauseous 
evidence  six  times  repeated,  and  the  lawyers  six  times  feed. 

Remains  the  legal  argument.  His  Honour  admits  the  municipality  to 
be  invested  "  with  such  legislative  powers  as  generally  constitute  a  police 
jurisdiction  " ;  he  does  not  deny  the  municipality  is  empowered  to  take 
steps  for  the  protection  of  the  person,  and  it  was  argued  this  implied  a 
jurisdiction  in  cases  of  assault.  But  this  argument  (observes  his  Honour) 
"proves  too  much,  and  consequently  nothing.  For  like  reasons  the 
municipal  council  should  have  power  to  provide  for  the  punishment  of 
all  felonies  against  the  person,  and  I  suppose  the  property  as  well."  And, 
filled  with  a  just  sense  that  a  merely  police  jurisdiction  should  be  limited, 
he  limits  it  with  a  vengeance  by  the  exclusion  of  all  assaults  and  all  lar- 
cenies. A  pity  he  had  not  looked  into  the  Berlin  Act!  He  would  have 
found  it  already  limited  there  by  the  same  power  which  called  it  into 
being— limited  to  fines  not  exceeding  $200  and  imprisonment  not  ex- 
tending beyond  1 80  days.  Nay,  and  I  think  he  might  have  even  reasoned 
from  this  discovery  that  he  was  himself  somewhat  in  error.  For,  assaults 
and  larcenies  being  excluded,  what  kind  of  enormity  is  that  which  is  to 
be  visited  with  a  fine  of  £40  or  an  imprisonment  of  half  a  year  ?  It  is 
perhaps  childish  to  pursue  further  this  childish  controversialist.  But  there 
is  one  passage,  if  he  had  dipped  into  the  Berlin  Act,  that  well  might  have 
arrested  his  attention :  that  in  which  he  is  himself  empowered  to  deal 
with  "crimes  and  offences,  .  ,  .  subject,  however,  to  the  provisions 
defining  the  jurisdiction  of  the  municipal  magistrate  of  Apia." 

I  trust,  Sir,  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  have  to  trouble  you  with  these 
twopenny  concerns.     But  until  some  step  is  taken  by  the  three  Powers, 

475 


LETTERS   FROM   SAMOA 

or  until  I  have  quite  exhausted  your  indulgence,  I  shall  continue  to  report 
our  scandals  as  they  arise.  Once  more,  one  thing  or  other :  Either  what 
I  write  is  false,  and  I  should  be  chastised  as  a  calumniator ;  or  else  it  is 
true,  and  these  officials  are  unfit  for  their  position.— I  am,  etc., 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

P.  S.  —The  mail  is  already  closed  when  1  receive  at  last  decisive  con- 
firmation of  the  purchase  of  the  Samoa  Times  by  the  Samoan  Govern- 
ment. It  has  never  been  denied ;  it  is  now  admitted.  The  paper  which 
they  bought  so  recently,  they  are  already  trying  to  sell ;  and  have  received 
and  refused  an  offer  of  ^  1 50  for  what  they  bought  for  upwards  of  ^^600, 
Surely  we  may  now  demand  the  attention  of  the  three  Powers. 

VII 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  PALL  MALL  GAZETTE  " 
I 

September  4,  /8p^. 
In  June  it  became  clear  that  the  King's  Government  was  weary  of 
waiting  upon  Europe,  as  it  had  been  clear  long  before  that  Europe  would 
do  nothing.  The  last  commentary  on  the  Berlin  Act  was  read.  Malietoa 
Laupepa  had  been  put  in  ex  auctoritate  by  the  Powers;  the  Powers 
would  not  support  him  even  by  a  show  of  strength,  and  there  was  no- 
thing left  but  to  fall  back  on  an  "  Election  according  to  the  Laws  and  Cus- 
toms of  Samoa  "—by  arbitrament  of  rifle-bullets  and  blackened  faces. 
Instantly  heaven  was  darkened  by  a  brood  of  rumours,  random  calumnies, 
and  idle  tales.  As  we  rode,  late  at  night,  through  the  hamlet  near  my 
house,  we  saw  fires  lighted  in  the  houses,  and  eager  talkers  discussing  the 
last  report.  The  King  was  sick ;  he  was  dying ;  he  was  perfectly  well ; 
he  was  seen  riding  furiously  by  night  in  the  back  parts  of  Apia,  and 
covering  his  face  as  he  rode.  Mataafa  was  in  favour  with  the  Germans ; 
he  was  to  be  made  a  German  king ;  he  was  secure  of  the  support  of  all 
Samoa ;  he  had  no  following  whatsoever.  The  name  of  every  chief  and 
village  (with  many  that  were  new  to  the  hearer)  came  up  in  turn,  to  be 
dubbed  Laupepa,  or  Mataafa,  or  both  at  the  same  time,  or  neither.  Dr. 
George  Brown,  the  missionary,  had  just  completed  a  tour  of  the  islands. 
There  are  few  men  in  the  worid  with  a  more  mature  knowledge  of  native 
character,  and  I  applied  to  him  eageriy  for  an  estimate  of  the  relative 
forces.     ''  When  the  first  shot  is  fired,  and  not  before,"  said  he,  ''you 

476 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

will  know  who  is  who. "  The  event  has  shown  that  he  might  have  gone 
yet  further;  for  even  after  shots  were  fired  and  men  slain,  an  important 
province  was  still  hesitating  and  trimming. 

Mataafa  lay  in  Malie.  He  had  an  armed  picket  at  a  ford  some  two  miles 
from  Apia,  where  they  sat  in  a  prodigious  state  of  vigilance  and  glee ;  and 
his  whole  troop,  although  not  above  five  hundred  strong,  appeared  ani- 
mated with  the  most  warlike  spirit.  For  himself,  he  waited,  as  he  had 
waited  for  two  years ;  wrote  eloquent  letters,  the  time  to  answer  which  was 
quite  gone  by ;  and  looked  on  while  his  enemies  painfully  collected  their 
forces.  Doubtless  to  the  last  he  was  assured  and  deceived  by  vain 
promises  of  help. 

The  process  of  gathering  a  royal  army  in  Samoa  is  cumbrous  and  dila- 
tory in  the  extreme.  There  is  here  none  of  the  expedition  of  the  fiery 
cross  and  the  bale-fire ;  but  every  step  is  diplomatic.  Each  village,  with 
a  great  expense  of  eloquence,  has  to  be  wiled  with  promises  and  spurred 
with  threats,  and  the  greater  chieftains  make  stipulations  ere  they  will 
march.  Tamasese,  son  to  the  late  German  puppet,  and  heir  of  his  am- 
bitions, demanded  the  vice-kingship  as  the  price  of  his  accession,  though 
I  am  assured  that  he  demanded  it  in  vain.  The  various  provinces  returned 
various  and  unsatisfactory  answers.  Atua  was  off  and  on ;  Tuamasaga 
was  divided ;  Tutuila  recalcitrant ;  and  for  long  the  King  sat  almost  solitary 
under  the  windy  palms  of  Mulinuu.  It  seemed  indeed  as  if  the  war  was 
off,  and  the  whole  archipelago  unanimous  (in  the  native  phrase)  to  sit  still 
and  plant  taro. 

But  at  last,  in  the  first  days  of  July,  Atua  began  to  come  in.  Boats 
arrived,  thirty  and  fifty  strong,  a  drum  and  a  very  ill-played  bugle  giving 
time  to  the  oarsmen,  the  whole  crew  uttering  at  intervals  a  savage  howl ; 
and  on  the  decked  fore-sheets  of  the  boat  the  village  champion,  frantically 
capering  and  dancing.  Parties  were  to  be  seen  encamped  in  palm-groves 
with  their  rifles  stacked.  The  shops  were  emptied  of  red  handkerchiefs, 
the  rally ing-sign,  or  (as  a  man  might  say)  the  uniform  of  the  Royal  army. 
There  was  spirit  shown ;  troops  of  handsome  lads  marched  in  a  right 
manly  fashion,  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders,  to  the  music  of  the 
drum  and  the  bugle  or  the  tin  whistle.  From  a  hamlet  close  to  my  own 
doors  a  contingent  of  six  men  marched  out.  Their  leader's  kit  contained 
one  stick  of  tobacco,  four  boxes  of  matches,  and  the  inevitable  red  hand- 
kerchief ;  in  his  case  it  was  of  silk,  for  he  had  come  late  to  the  purchasing, 
and  the  commoner  materials  were  exhausted.    This  childish  band  of 

477 


LETTERS   FROM   SAMOA 

braves  marched  one  afternoon  to  a  neighbouring  hill,  and  the  s?me  night 
returned  to  their  houses  on  the  ground  that  it  was  "  uncomfortable  "  in 
the  bush.  An  excellent  old  fellow,  who  had  had  enough  of  war  in  many 
campaigns,  took  refuge  in  my  service  from  the  conscription,  but  in  vain. 
The  village  had  decided  no  warrior  might  hang  back.  One  summoner 
arrived;  and  then  followed  some  negotiations— 1  have  no  authority  to 
say  what :  enough  that  the  messenger  departed  and  our  friend  remained. 
But,  alas!  a  second  envoy  followed  and  proved  to  be  of  sterner  composi- 
tion; and  with  a  basket  full  of  food,  kava,  and  tobacco,  the  reluctant 
hero  proceeded  to  the  wars.  I  am  sure  they  had  few  handsomer  soldiers, 
if,  perhaps,  some  that  were  more  willing.  And  he  would  have  been  better 
to  be  armed.  His  gun— but  in  Mr.  Kipling's  pleasant  catchword,  that  is 
another  story. 

War,  to  the  Samoan  of  mature  years,  is  often  an  unpleasant  necessity. 
To  the  young  boy  it  is  a  heaven  of  immediate  pleasures,  as  well  as  an 
opportunity  of  ultimate  glory.  Women  march  with  the  troops— even 
the  Taupo-sa,  or  sacred  maid  of  the  village,  accompanies  her  father  in 
the  field  to  carry  cartridges,  and  bring  him  water  to  drink,— and  their 
bright  eyes  are  ready  to  "  rain  influence  "  and  reward  valour.  To  what 
grim  deeds  this  practice  may  conduct  I  shall  have  to  say  later  on.  In  the 
rally  of  their  arms,  it  is  at  least  wholly  pretty ;  and  I  have  one  pleasant 
picture  of  a  war-party  marching  out ;  the  men  armed  and  boastful,  their 
heads  bound  with  the  red  handkerchief,  their  faces  blacked— and  two  girls 
marching  in  their  midst  under  European  parasols. 

On  Saturday,  July  8,  by  the  early  morning,  the  troops  began  to  file 
westward  from  Apia,  and  about  noon  found  themselves  face  to  face  with 
the  lines  of  Mataafa  in  the  German  plantation  of  Vaitele.  The  armies 
immediately  fraternised ;  kava  was  made  by  the  ladies,  as  who  should  say 
tea,  at  home,  and  partaken  of  by  the  braves  with  many  truculent  ex- 
pressions. One  chief  on  the  King's  side,  revolted  by  the  extent  of  these 
familiarities,  began  to  beat  his  followers  with  a  staff.  But  both  parties 
were  still  intermingled  between  the  lines,  and  the  chiefs  on  either  side 
were  conversing,  and  even  embracing,  at  the  moment  when  an  accidental, 
or  perhaps  a  treacherous,  shot  precipitated  the  engagement.  1  cannot 
find  there  was  any  decisive  difference  in  the  numbers  actually  under  fire ; 
but  the  Mataafas  appear  to  have  been  ill  posted  and  ill  led.  Twice  their 
flank  was  turned,  their  line  enfiladed,  and  themselves  driven,  with  the 
loss  of  about  thirty,  from  two  successive  cattle  walls.     A  third  wall 

478 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

afforded  them  a  more  effectual  shelter,  and  night  closed  on  the  field  of 
battle  without  further  advantage.  All  night  the  Royal  troops  hailed 
volleys  of  bullets  at  this  obstacle.  With  the  earliest  light,  a  charge  proved 
it  to  be  quite  deserted,  and  from  farther  down  the  coast  smoke  was  seen 
rising  from  the  houses  of  Malie.  Mataafa  had  precipitately  fled,  destroy- 
ing behind  him  the  village,  which,  for  two  years,  he  had  been  raising 
and  beautifying. 

So  much  was  accomplished:  what  was  to  follow?  Mataafa  took 
refuge  in  Manono,  and  cast  up  forts.  His  enemies,  far  from  following 
up  this  advantage,  held /o«os  and  made  speeches  and  found  fault.  I 
believe  the  majority  of  the  King's  army  had  marched  in  a  state  of  con- 
tinuous indecision,  and  maintaining  an  attitude  of  impartiality  more  to  be 
admired  in  the  cabinet  of  the  philosopher  than  in  the  field  of  war.  It  is 
certain  at  least  that  only  one  province  has  as  yet  fired  a  shot  for  Malietoa 
Laupepa.  The  valour  of  the  Tuamasaga  was  sufficient  and  prevailed. 
But  Atua  was  in  the  rear,  and  has  as  yet  done  nothing.  As  for  the  men 
of  Crana,  so  far  from  carrying  out  the  plan  agreed  upon,  and  blocking 
the  men  of  Malie,  on  the  morning  of  the  8th,  they  were  entertaining  an 
embassy  from  Mataafa,  and  they  suffered  his  fleet  of  boats  to  escape 
without  a  shot  through  certain  dangerous  narrows  of  the  lagoon,  and  the 
chief  himself  to  pass  on  foot  and  unmolested  along  the  whole  foreshore 
of  their  province.  No  adequate  excuse  has  been  made  for  this  half-hearted- 
ness— or  treachery.  It  was  a  piece  of  the  whole  which  was  a  specimen. 
There  are  too  many  strings  in  a  Samoan  intrigue  for  the  merely  European 
mind  to  follow,  and  the  desire  to  serve  upon  both  sides,  and  keep  a  door 
open  for  reconciliation,  was  manifest  almost  throughout.  A  week  passed 
in  these  divided  counsels.  Savaii  had  refused  to  receive  Mataafa— it  is  said 
they  now  hesitated  to  rise  for  the  King,  and  demanded  instead  a/ono 
(or  council)  of  both  sides.  And  it  seemed  at  least  possible  that  the  Royal 
army  might  proceed  no  farther,  and  the  unstable  alliance  be  dissolved. 

On  Sunday,  the  i6th.  Her  British  Majesty's  ship  Katoomha,  Captain 
Bickford,  C.M.G.,  arrived  in  Apia  with  fresh  orders.  Had  she  but  come 
ten  days  earlier  the  whole  of  this  miserable  business  would  have  been 
prevented,  for  the  three  Powers  were  determined  to  maintain  Malietoa 
Laupepa  by  arms,  and  had  declared  finally  against  Mataafa.  Right  or 
wrong,  it  was  at  least  a  decision,  and  therefore  welcome.  It  may  not  be 
best— it  was  something.  No  honest  friend  to  Samoa  can  pretend  any- 
thing but  relief  that  the  three  Powers  should  at  last  break  their  vacillating 

479 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

silence.  It  is  of  a  piece  with  their  whole  policy  in  the  islands  that  they 
should  have  hung  in  stays  for  upwards  of  two  years— of  a  piece  with 
their  almost  uniform  ill-fortune  that,  eight  days  before  their  purpose  was 
declared,  war  should  have  marked  the  country  with  burned  houses  and 
severed  heads. 


There  is  another  side  to  the  medal  of  Samoan  warfare.  So  soon  as  an 
advantage  is  obtained,  a  new  and  (to  us)  horrible  animal  appears  upon 
the  scene— the  Head-hunter.  Again  and  again  we  have  reasoned  with 
our  boys  against  this  bestial  practice ;  but  reason  and  (upon  this  one  point) 
even  ridicule  are  vain.  They  admit  it  to  be  indefensible;  they  allege 
its  imperative  necessity.  One  young  man,  who  had  seen  his  father  take 
a  head  in  the  late  war,  spoke  of  the  scene  with  shuddering  revolt,  and  yet 
said  he  must  go  and  do  likewise  himself  in  the  war  which  was  to  come. 
How  else  could  a  man  prove  he  was  brave  ?  and  had  not  every  country  its 
own  customs  ? 

Accordingly,  as  occasion  offered,  these  same  pleasing  children,  who 
had  just  been  drinking  kava  with  their  opponents,  fell  incontinently  on 
the  dead  and  dying,  and  secured  their  grisly  trophies.  It  should  be  said, 
in  fairness,  that  the  Mataafas  had  no  opportunity  to  take  heads,  but  that 
their  chief,  taught  by  the  lesson  of  Fangalii,  had  forbidden  the  practice. 
It  is  doubtful  if  he  would  have  been  obeyed,  and  yet  his  power  over  his 
people  was  so  great  that  the  German  plantation,  where  they  lay  some 
time,  and  were  at  last  defeated,  had  not  to  complain  of  the  theft  of  a 
single  cocoanut.  Hateful  as  it  must  always  be  to  mutilate  and  murder 
the  disabled,  there  were  in  this  day's  affray  in  Vaitele  circumstances  yet 
more  detestable.  Fifteen  heads  were  brought  in  all  to  Mulinuu.  They 
were  carried  with  parade  in  front  of  the  fine  house  which  our  late  Presi- 
dent built  for  himself  before  he  was  removed.  Here,  on  the  verandah, 
the  King  sat  to  receive  them,  and  utter  words  of  course  and  compliment 
to  each  successful  warrior.  They  were  spoila  opima  in  the  number. 
Leaupepe,  Mataafa's  nephew— or,  as  Samoans  say,  his  son— had  fallen 
by  the  first  wall,  and  whether  from  those  sentiments  of  kindred  and  friend- 
ship that  so  often  unite  the  combatants  in  civil  strife,  or  to  mark  by  an 
unusual  formality  the  importance  of  the  conquest,  not  only  his  head  but 
his  mutilated  body  also  was  brought  in.  From  the  mat  in  which  the 
corpse  was  enveloped  a  bloody  hand  protruded,  and  struck  a  chill  in 

480 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

white  eye-witnesses.  It  were  to  attribute  to  (Malietoa)  Laupepa  senti- 
ments entirely  foreign  to  his  race  and  training,  if  we  were  to  suppose  him 
otherwise  than  gratified. 

But  it  was  not  so  throughout.  Every  country  has  its  customs,  say 
native  apologists,  and  one  of  the  most  decisive  customs  of  Samoa  ensures 
the  immunity  of  women.  They  go  to  the  front,  as  our  women  of  yore 
went  to  a  tournament.  Bullets  are  blind ;  and  they  must  take  their  risk 
of  bullets,  but  of  nothing  else.  They  serve  out  cartridges  and  water ; 
they  jeer  the  faltering  and  defend  the  wounded.  Even  in  this  skirmish 
of  Vaitele  they  distinguished  themselves  on  either  side.  One  dragged  her 
skulking  husband  from  a  hole,  and  drove  him  to  the  front.  Another, 
seeing  her  lover  fall,  snatched  up  his  gun,  kept  the  head-hunters  at  bay, 
and  drew  him  unmutilated  from  the  field.  Such  services  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  pay  for  centuries ;  and  often,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  a 
bullet  or  a  spear  must  have  despatched  one  of  these  warlike  angels. 
Often  enough,  too,  the  head-hunter,  springing  ghoul-like  on  fallen  bodies, 
must  have  decapitated  a  woman  for  a  man.  But,  the  case  arising,  there 
was  an  established  etiquette.  So  soon  as  the  error  was  discovered  tiie 
head  was  buried,  and  the  exploit  forgotten.  There  had  never  yet,  in  the 
history  of  Samoa,  occurred  an  instance  in  which  a  man  had  taken  a 
woman's  head  and  kept  it  and  laid  it  at  his  monarch's  feet. 

Such  was  the  strange  and  horrid  spectacle,  which  must  have  immedi- 
ately shaken  the  heart  of  Laupepa,  and  has  since  covered  the  faces  of  his 
party  with  confusion.  It  is  not  quite  certain  if  there  were  three,  or  only 
two ;  a  recent  attempt  to  reduce  the  number  to  one  must  be  received  with 
caution  as  an  afterthought ;  the  admissions  in  the  beginning  were  too 
explicit,  the  panic  of  shame  and  fear  had  been  too  sweeping.  There  is 
scarce  a  woman  of  our  native  friends  in  Apia  who  can  speak  upon  the 
subject  without  terror;  scarce  any  man  without  humiliation.  And  the 
shock  was  increased  out  of  measure  by  the  fact  that  the  head— or  one  of 
the  heads— was  recognised ;  recognised  for  the  niece  of  one  of  the  greatest 
of  court  ladies ;  recognised  for  a  Taupo-sa,  or  sacred  maid  of  a  village 
from  Savaii.  It  seemed  incredible  that  she— who  had  been  chosen  for  virtue 
and  beauty,  who  went  everywhere  attended  by  the  fairest  maidens,  and 
watched  over  by  vigilant  duennas,  whose  part  it  was,  in  holiday  costume, 
to  receive  guests,  to  make  kava,  and  to  be  the  leader  of  the  revels- 
should  become  the  victim  of  a  brutal  rally  in  a  cow-park,  and  have  her 
face  exposed  for  a  trophy  to  the  victorious  king. 

481 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

In  all  this  muttering  of  aversion  and  alarm,  no  word  has  been  openly 
said.  No  punishment,  no  disgrace,  has  been  inflicted  on  the  perpetrators 
of  the  outrage.  King,  Consuls,  and  mission  appear  to  have  held  their  peace 
alike.  I  can  understand  a  certain  apathy  in  whites.  Head-hunting,  they 
say,  is  a  horrid  practice :  and  will  not  stop  to  investigate  its  finer  shades. 
But  the  Samoan  himself  does  not  hesitate ;  for  him  the  act  is  portentous ; 
and  if  it  go  unpunished,  and  set  a  fashion,  its  consequences  must  be  dam- 
nable. This  is  not  a  breach  of  a  Christian  virtue,  of  something  half- 
learned  by  rote,  and  from  foreigners,  in  the  last  thirty  years.  It  is  a 
flying  in  the  face  of  their  own  native,  instinctive,  and  traditional  stan- 
dard :  tenfold  more  ominous  and  degrading.  And,  taking  the  matter  for 
all  in  all,  it  seems  to  me  that  head-hunting  itself  should  be  firmly  and 
immediately  suppressed.  "How  else  can  a  man  prove  himself  to  be 
brave  ?  "  my  friend  asked.  But  often  enough  these  are  but  fraudulent 
trophies.  On  the  morrow  of  the  fight  at  Vaitele,  an  Atua  man  discovered 
a  body  lying  in  the  bush ;  he  took  the  head.  A  day  or  two  ago  a  party 
was  allowed  to  visit  Manono.  The  King's  troops  on  shore,  observing 
them  put  off  from  the  rebel  island,  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
must  be  the  wounded  going  to  Apia,  launched  off  .at  once  two  armed 
boats  and  overhauled  the  others— after  heads.  The  glory  of  such  exploits 
is  not  apparent ;  their  power  for  degradation  strikes  the  eyes.  Lieutenant 
Ulfsparre,  our  late  Swedish  Chief  of  Police  and  Commander  of  the  forces, 
told  his  men  that  if  any  of  them  took  a  head  his  own  hand  should 
avenge  it.  That  was  talking ;  I  should  like  to  see  all  in  the  same  story 
—King,  Consuls,  and  missionaries— included. 


The  three  Powers  have  at  last  taken  hold  here  in  Apia.  But  they 
came  the  day  after  the  fair;  and  the  immediate  business  on  hand  is 
very  delicate.  This  morning,  i8th.  Captain  Bickford,  followed  by  two 
Germans,  sailed  for  Manono.  If  he  shall  succeed  in  persuading  Mataafa 
to  surrender,  all  may  be  well.  If  he  cannot,  this  long  train  of  blunders 
may  end  in— what  is  so  often  the  result  of  blundering  in  the  field  of 
politics— a  horrible  massacre.  Those  of  us  who  remember  the  services  of 
Mataafa,  his  unfailing  generosity  and  moderation  in  the  past,  and  his  be- 
reavement in  the  present— as  well  as  those  who  are  only  interested  in  a 
mass  of  men  and  women,  many  of  them  our  familiar  friends,  now  pent 

482 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

up  on  an  island,  and  beleaguered  by  three  war-ships  and  a  Samoan  army 
—await  the  issue  with  dreadful  expectation. 


VIII 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  TIMES  " 

Vailima,  Apia,  April  2},  i8p4. 

Sir,— I  last  addressed  you  on  the  misconduct  of  certain  officials  here, 
and  I  was  so  far  happy  as  to  have  had  my  facts  confirmed  in  every  par- 
ticular with  but  one  exception.  That  exception,  the  affair  of  the  dynamite, 
has  been  secretly  smuggled  away ;  you  shall  look  in  vain  in  either  Blue- 
book  or  White-book  for  any  mention  even  of  the  charge ;  it  is  gone  like 
the  conjurer's  orange.  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  inquire  into  the 
reason  of  this  conspiracy  of  silence,  whether  the  idea  was  conceived  in 
the  bosoms  of  the  three  Powers  themselves,  or  whether  in  the  breasts  of 
the  three  Consuls,  because  one  of  their  number  was  directly  implicated. 
And  I  might  have  gone  on  to  consider  the  moral  effect  of  such  suppres- 
sions, and  to  show  how  very  idle  they  were,  and  how  very  undignified, 
in  the  face  of  a  small  and  compact  population,  where  everybody  sees  and 
hears,  where  everybody  knows,  and  talks,  and  laughs.  But  only  a  personal 
question  remained,  which  I  judged  of  no  interest  to  the  public.  The 
essential  was  accomplished.  Baron  Senfft  was  gone  already.  Mr.  Ceder- 
crantz  still  lingered  among  us  in  the  character  (I  may  say)  of  a  private 
citizen,  his  Court  at  last  closed,  only  his  pocket  open  for  the  receipt  of  his 
salary,  representing  the  dignity  of  the  Berlin  Act  by  sitting  in  the  wind 
on  Mulinuu  Point  for  several  consecutive  months— a  curious  phantom  or 
survival  of  a  past  age.  The  new  officials  were  not  as  yet,  because  they  had 
not  been  created.  And  we  fell  into  our  old  estate  of  government  by  the 
three  Consuls,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning  before  the  Berlin  Act  existed ;  as 
it  seems  it  will  be  to  the  end,  after  the  Berlin  Act  has  been  swept  away. 

It  was  during  the  time  of  this  triumvirate,  and  wholly  at  their  instiga- 
tion and  under  their  conduct,  that  Mataafa  was  defeated,  driven  to 
Manono,  and  (three  war-ships  coming  opportunely  to  hand)  forced  to 
surrender.  I  have  been  called  a  partisan  of  this  chief's,  and  I  accept  the 
term.  I  thought  him,  on  the  whole,  the  most  honest  man  in  Samoa, 
not  excepting  white  officials.  I  ventured  to  think  he  had  been  hardly 
used  by  the  Treaty  Powers ;  I  venture  to  think  so  still.  It  was  my  opinion 
that  he  should  have  been  conjoined  with  Malietoa  as  Vice-King;  and  I 

483 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

have  seen  no  reason  to  change  that  opinion,  except  that  the  time  for  it 
is  past.  Mataafa  has  played  and  lost ;  an  exile,  and  stripped  of  his  titles, 
he  walks  the  exiguous  beach  of  Jaluit,  sees  the  German  flag  over  his  head, 
and  yearns  for  the  land-w^ind  of  Upolu.  In  the  politics  of  Samoa  he  is 
no  longer  a  factor ;  and  it  only  remains  to  speak  of  the  manner  in  which 
his  rebellion  was  suppressed  and  punished.  Deportation  is,  to  the  Samoan 
mind,  the  punishment  next  to  death,  and  thirteen  of  the  chiefs  engaged 
were  deported  with  their  leader.  Twenty-seven  others  were  cast  into  the 
jail.  There  they  lie  still ;  the  Government  makes  almost  no  attempt  to 
feed  them,  and  they  must  depend  on  the  activity  of  their  families  and 
the  charity  of  pitying  whites.  In  the  meantime,  these  very  families  are 
overloaded  with  fines,  the  exorbitant  sum  of  more  than  ;^66oo  having 
been  laid  on  the  chiefs  and  villages  that  took  part  with  Mataafa. 

So  far  we  can  only  complain  that  the  punishments  have  been  severe 
and  the  prison  commissariat  absent.  But  we  have,  besides,  to  regret  the 
repeated  scandals  in  connection  with  the  conduct  of  the  war,  and  we 
look  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  punishment.  The  Consuls  had  to  employ 
barbarous  hands;  we  might  expect  outrages;  we  did  expect  them  to  be 
punished,  or  at  least  disowned.  Thus,  certain  Mataafa  chiefs  were  landed,, 
and  landed  from  a  British  man-of-war,  to  be  shamefully  abused,  beaten, 
and  struck  with  whips  along  the  main  street  of  Mulinuu.  There  was  no 
punishment,  there  was  even  no  inquiry ;  the  three  Consuls  winked.  Only 
one  man  was  found  honest  and  bold  enough  to  open  his  mouth,  and 
that  was  my  old  enemy,  Mr.  Cedercrantz.  Walking  in  Mulinuu,  in  his 
character  of  disinterested  spectator,  gracefully  desipient,  he  came  across 
the  throng  of  these  rabblers  and  their  victims.  He  had  forgotten  that  he 
was  an  official,  he  remembered  that  he  was  a  man.  It  was  his  last  public 
appearance  in  Samoa  to  interfere ;  it  was  certainly  his  best.  Again,  the 
Government  troops  in  the  field  took  the  heads  of  girls,  a  detestable  felony 
even  in  Samoan  eyes.  They  carried  them  in  procession  to  Mulinuu, 
and  made  of  them  an  oblation  to  that  melancholy  effigy  the  King,  who 
(sore  against  his  will)  sat  on  the  verandah  of  the  Government  building, 
publicly  to  receive  this  affront,  publicly  to  utter  the  words  of  compliment 
and  thanks  which  constitute  the  highest  reward  known  to  Samoan  bravery, 
and  crowned  as  heroes  those  who  should  have  been  hanged  like  dogs. 
And  again  the  three  Consuls  unanimously  winked.  There  was  no  pun- 
ishment, there  was  even  no  inquiry. 

Lastly,  there  is  the  story  of  Manono.  Three  hours  were  given  to.- 
484 


LETTERS  TO  LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

Mataafa  to  accept  the  terms  of  the  ultimatum,  and  the  time  had  almost 
elapsed  when  his  boats  put  forth,  and  more  than  elapsed  before  he  came 
alongside  the  Katoomha  and  surrendered  formally  to  Captain  Bickford. 
In  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  when  all  the  ships  had  sailed,  flames  were 
observed  to  rise  from  the  island.  Mataafa  flung  himself  on  his  knees 
before  Captain  Bickford,  and  implored  protection  for  his  women  and 
children  left  behind,  and  the  captain  put  back  the  ship  and  despatched 
one  of  the  Consuls  to  inquire.  The  Katoomha  had  been  about  seventy 
hours  in  the  islands.  Captain  Bickford  was  a  stranger;  he  had  to  rely 
on  the  Consuls  implicitly.  At  the  same  time,  he  knew  that  the  Govern- 
ment troops  had  been  suffered  to  land  for  the  purpose  of  restoring 
order,  and  with  the  understanding  that  no  reprisals  should  be  committed 
on  the  adherents  of  Mataafa;  and  he  charged  the  emissary  with  his 
emphatic  disapproval,  threats  of  punishment  on  the  offenders,  and  re- 
minders that  the  war  had  now  passed  under  the  responsibility  of  the 
three  Powers.  I  cannot  condescend  on  what  this  Consul  saw  during 
his  visit;  I  can  only  say  what  he  repoited  on  his  return.  He  reported  all 
well,  and  the  chiefs  on  the  Government  side  fraternising  and  making  ava 
with  those  on  Mataafa's.  It  may  have  been ;  at  least  it  is  strange.  The 
burning  of  the  island  proceeded,  fruit-trees  were  cut  down,  women 
stripped  naked ;  a  scene  of  brutal  disorder  reigned  all  night,  and  left  be- 
hind it,  over  a  quarter  of  the  island,  ruin.  If  they  fraternised  with  Ma- 
taafa's chieftains  they  must  have  been  singularly  inconsistent,  for,  the 
next  we  learn  of  the  two  parties,  they  were  beating,  spitting  upon,  and 
insulting  them  along  the  highway.  The  next  morning  in  Apia  I  asked 
the  same  Consul  if  there  had  not  been  some  houses  burned.  He  told  me 
no.  I  repeated  the  question,  alleging  the  evidence  of  officers  on  board 
the  K-atoomha  who  had  seen  the  flames  increase  and  multiply  as  they 
steamed  away ;  whereupon  he  had  this  remarkable  reply— "  O!  huts,  huts, 
huts!  There  is  n't  a  house,  a  frame  house,  on  the  island."  The  case  to 
plain  men  stands  thus :  The  people  of  Manono  were  insulted,  their  food- 
trees  cut  down,  themselves  left  houseless;  not  more  than  ten  houses— I 
beg  the  Consul's  pardon,  huts— escaped  the  rancour  of  their  enemies; 
and  to  this  day  they  may  be  seen  to  dwell  in  shanties  on  the  site  of  their 
former  residences,  the  pride  of  the  Samoan  heart.  The  ejaculation  of  the 
Consul  was  thus  at  least  prophetic;  and  the  traveller  who  revisits  to-day 
the  shores  of  the  "  Garden  Island  "  may  well  exclaim  in  his  turn,  "  Huts, 

485 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

The  same  measure  was  served  out,  in  the  mere  wantonness  of  clan 
hatred,  to  Apolima,  a  nearly  inaccessible  islet  in  the  straits  of  the  same 
name ;  almost  the  only  property  saved  there  (it  is  amusing  to  remember) 
being  a  framed  portrait  of  Lady  Jersey,  which  its  custodian  escaped  with 
into  the  bush,  as  it  were  the  palladium  and  chief  treasure  of  the  inhabi- 
tants. The  solemn  promise  passed  by  Consuls  and  captains  in  the  name 
of  the  three  Powers  was  thus  broken ;  the  troops  employed  were  allowed 
their  bellyful  of  barbarous  outrage.  And  again  there  was  no  punishment, 
there  was  no  inquiry ;  there  was  no  protest,  there  was  not  a  word  said 
to  disown  the  act  or  disengage  the  honour  of  the  three  Powers.  1  do 
not  say  the  Consuls  desired  to  be  disobeyed,  though  the  case  looks  black 
against  one  gentleman,  and  even  he  is  perhaps  only  to  be  accused  of  levity 
and  divided  interest ;  it  was  doubtless  important  for  him  to  be  early  in 
Apia,  where  he  combines  with  his  diplomatic  functions  the  management 
of  a  thriving  business  as  commission  agent  and  auctioneer.  1  do  say  of 
all  of  them  that  they  took  a  very  nonchalant  view  of  their  duty. 

I  told  myself  that  this  was  the  government  of  the  Consular  Triumvirate. 
When  the  new  officials  came  it  would  cease ;  it  would  pass  away  like  a 
dream  in  the  night ;  and  the  solid  Pax  Rotnana  of  the  Berlin  General  Act 
would  succeed.  After  all,  what  was  there  to  complain  of?  The  Con- 
suls had  shown  themselves  no  slovens  and  no  sentimentalists.  They  had 
shown  themselves  not  very  particular,  but  in  one  sense  very  thorough. 
Rebellion  was  to  be  put  down  swiftly  and  rigorously,  if  need  were  with 
the  hand  of  Cromwell ;  at  least  it  was  to  be  put  down.  And  in  these 
unruly  islands  I  was  prepared  almost  to  welcome  the  face  of  Rhadaman- 
thine  severity. 

And  now  it  appears  it  was  all  a  mistake.  The  government  by  the 
Berlin  General  Act  is  no  more  than  a  mask,  and  a  very  expensive  one,  for 
government  by  the  Consular  Triumvirate.  Samoa  pays  (or  tries  to  pay) 
^2200  a  year  to  a  couple  of  helpers ;  and  they  dare  not  call  their  souls 
their  own.  They  take  their  walks  abroad  with  an  anxious  eye  on  the 
three  Consuls,  like  two  well-behaved  children  with  three  nurses ;  and  the 
Consuls,  smiling  superior,  allow  them  to  amuse  themselves  with  the  routine 
of  business.  But  let  trouble  come,  and  the  farce  is  suspended.  At  the 
whistle  of  a  squall  these  heaven-bom  mariners  seize  the  tiller,  and  the 
;^220o  amateurs  are  knocked  sprawling  on  the  bilge.  At  the  first  beat 
of  the  drum,  the  treaty  officials  are  sent  below,  gently  protesting,  like  a 
pair  of  old  ladies,  and  behold!  the  indomitable  Consuls  ready  to  clear  the 

486 


LETTERS  TO  LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

wreck  and  make  the  deadly  cutlass  shine.  And  their  method,  studied 
under  the  light  of  a  new  example,  wears  another  air.  They  are  not  so 
Rhadamanthine  as  we  thought.  Something  that  we  can  only  call  a  dig- 
nified panic  presides  over  their  deliberations.  They  have  one  idea  to 
lighten  the  ship.  "  Overboard  with  the  ballast,  the  mainmast,  and  the 
chronometer ! "  is  the  cry.  In  the  last  war  they  got  rid  (first)  of  the  honour 
of  their  respective  countries,  and  (second)  of  all  idea  that  Samoa  was  to 
be  governed  in  a  manner  consistent  with  civilisation,  or  Government 
troops  punished  for  any  conceivable  misconduct.  In  the  present  war 
they  have  sacrificed  (first)  the  prestige  of  the  new  Chief  Justice,  and 
(second)  the  very  principle  for  which  they  had  contended  so  vigorously 
and  so  successfully  in  the  war  before— that  rebellion  was  a  thing  to  be 
punished. 

About  the  end  of  last  year,  that  war,  a  war  of  the  Tupuas  under 
Tamasese  the  younger,  which  was  a  necessary  pendant  to  the  crushing 
of  Mataafa,  began  to  make  itself  heard  of  in  obscure  grumblings.  It  was 
but  a  timid  business.  One  half  of  the  Tupua  party,  the  whole  province 
of  Atua,  never  joined  the  rebellion,  but  sulked  in  their  villages,  and  spent 
the  time  in  indecisive  eloquence  and  barren  embassies.  Tamasese,  by  a 
trick  eminently  Samoan,  "  went  in  the  high  bush  and  the  mountains,** 
carrying  a  gun  like  a  private  soldier— served,  in  fact,  with  his  own  troops 
incognito— and  thus,  to  Samoan  eyes,  waived  his  dynastic  pretensions. 
And  the  war,  which  was  announced  in  the  beginning  with  a  long  cata- 
logue of  complaints  against  the  King  and  a  distinct  and  ugly  threat  to 
the  white  population  of  Apia,  degenerated  into  a  war  of  defence  by  the 
province  of  Aana  against  the  eminently  brutal  troops  of  Savaii,  in  which 
sympathy  was  generally  and  justly  with  the  rebels.  Savaii,  raging  with 
private  clan  hatred  and  the  lust  of  destruction,  was  put  at  free  quarters 
in  the  disaffected  province,  repeated  on  a  wider  scale  the  outrages  of 
Manono  and  Apolima,  cut  down  the  food-trees,  stripped  and  insulted  the 
women,  robbed  the  children  of  their  little  possessions,  burned  the  houses, 
killed  the  horses,  the  pigs,  the  dogs,  the  cats,  along  one  half  the  seaboard 
of  Aana,  and  in  the  prosecution  of  these  manly  exploits  managed  (to  the 
joy  of  all)  to  lose  some  sixty  men  killed,  wounded,  and  drowned. 

Government  by  the  Treaty  of  Berlin  was  still  erect  when,  one  fine 
morning,  in  walked  the  three  Consuls,  totally  uninvited,  with  a  procla- 
mation prepared  and  signed  by  themselves,  without  any  mention  ot 
anybody  else.     They  had  awoke  to  a  sense  of  the  danger  of  the  situa- 

487 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

tion  and  their  own  indispensable  merits.  The  two  children  knew  theii 
day  was  over;  the  nurses  had  come  for  them.  Who  can  blame  them  for 
their  timidity?  The  Consuls  have  the  ears  of  the  Governments;  they 
are  the  authors  of  those  despatches  of  which,  in  the  ripeness  of  time, 
Blue-books  and  White-books  are  made  up;  they  had  dismissed  (with 
some  little  assistance  from  yourself)  MM.  Cedercrantz  and  Senfft  von 
Pilsach,  and  they  had  strangled,  like  an  illegitimate  child,  the  scandal  of 
the  dynamite.  The  Chief  Justice  and  the  President  made  haste  to  disap- 
pear between  decks,  and  left  the  ship  of  the  State  to  the  three  volunteers. 
There  was  no  lack  of  activity.  The  Consuls  went  up  to  Atua,  they 
went  down  to  Aana;  the  oarsmen  toiled,  the  talking  men  pleaded;  they 
are  said  to  have  met  with  threats  in  Atua,  and  to  have  yielded  to  them 
—at  least,  in  but  a  few  days'  time  they  came  home  to  us  with  a  new 
treaty  of  pacification.  Of  course,  and  as  before,  the  Government  troops 
were  whitewashed ;  the  Savaii  ruffians  had  been  stripping  women  and 
killing  cats  in  the  interests  of  the  Berlin  Treaty;  there  was  to  be  no 
punishment  and  no  inquiry ;  let  them  retire  to  Savaii  with  their  booty 
and  their  dead.  Offensive  as  this  cannot  fail  to  be,  there  is  still  some 
slight  excuse  for  it.  The  King  is  no  more  than  one  out  of  several  chiefs 
of  clans.  His  strength  resides  in  the  willing  obedience  of  the  Tuamasaga, 
and  a  portion— I  have  to  hope  a  bad  portion— of  the  island  of  Savaii. 
To  punish  any  of  these  supporters  must  always  be  to  accept  a  risk ;  and 
the  golden  opportunity  had  been  allowed  to  slip  at  the  moment  of  the 
Mataafa  war. 

What  was  more  original  was  the  treatment  of  the  rebels.  They  were 
under  arms  that  moment  against  the  Government ;  they  had  fought  and 
sometimes  vanquished;  they  had  taken  heads  and  carried  them  to 
Tamasese.  And  the  terms  granted  were  to  surrender  fifty  rifles,  to 
make  some  twenty  miles  of  road,  to  pay  some  old  fmes—and  to  be  for- 
given! The  loss  of  fifty  rifles  to  people  destitute  of  any  shadow  of  a 
gunsmith  to  repair  them  when  they  are  broken,  and  already  notoriously 
short  of  ammunition,  is  a  trifle;  the  number  is  easy  to  be  made  up  of 
those  that  are  out  of  commission ;  for  there  is  not  the  least  stipulation  as 
to  their  value ;  any  synthesis  of  old  iron  and  smashed  wood  that  can  be 
called  a  gun  is  to  be  taken  from  its  force.  The  road,  as  likely  as  not, 
will  never  be  made.  The  fines  have  nothing  to  say  to  this  war;  in  any 
reasonably  governed  country  they  should  never  have  figured  in  the  treaty ; 
they  had  been  inflicted  before,  and  were  due  before.    Before  the  rebellion 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

began,  the  beach  had  rung  with  I  know  not  what  indiscreet  bluster :  the 
natives  were  to  be  read  a  lesson ;  Tamasese  (by  name)  was  to  be  hanged ; 
and  after  what  had  been  done  to  Mataafa,  1  was  so  innocent  as  to  listen 
with  awe.  And  now  the  rebellion  has  come,  and  this  wzs  the  punish- 
ment! There  might  well  have  been  a  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  chief 
who  should  have  been  tempted  to  follow  the  example  of  Mataafa ;  but 
who  is  it  that  would  not  dare  to  follow  Tamasese  ? 

For  some  reason— I  know  not  what,  unless  it  be  fear— there  is  a  strong 
prejudice  amongst  whites  against  any  interference  with  the  bestial  prac- 
tice of  head-hunting.  They  say  it  would  be  impossible  to  identify  the 
criminals— a  thing  notoriously  contrary  to  fact.  A  man  does  not  take  a 
head,  as  he  steals  an  apple,  for  secret  degustation ;  the  essence  of  the 
thing  is  its  publicity.  After  the  girls'  heads  were  brought  into  Mulinuu 
I  pressed  Mr,  Cusack-Smith  to  take  some  action.  He  proposed  a  paper 
of  protest,  to  be  signed  by  the  English  residents.  We  made  rival  drafts ; 
his  was  pi  ef erred,  and  I  have  heard  no  more  of  it.  It  has  not  been  offered 
me  to  sign ;  it  has  not  been  published ;  under  a  paper-weight  in  the  British 
Consulate  I  suppose  it  may  yet  be  found!  Meanwhile,  his  Honour,  Mr. 
Ide,  the  new  Chief  Justice,  came  to  Samoa  and  took  spirited  action.  He 
engineered  an  ordinance  through  the  House  of  Faipule,  inflicting  serious 
penalties  on  any  who  took  heads,  and  the  papers  at  the  time  applauded 
his  success.  The  rebellion  followed,  the  troops  were  passing  to  the  front, 
and  with  excellent  resolution  Mr.  Ide  harangued  the  chiefs,  reiterated  the 
terms  of  the  new  law,  and  promised  unfailing  vengeance  on  offenders. 
It  was  boldly  done,  and  he  stood  committed  beyond  possibility  of  retreat 
to  enforce  this  his  first  important  edict.  Great  was  the  commotion, 
great  the  division,  in  the  Samoan  mind.  "O!  we  have  had  Chief  Jus- 
tices before,"  said  a  visitor  to  my  house;  "we  know  what  they  are;  I 
will  take  a  head  if  I  can  get  one."  Others  were  more  doubtful,  but 
thought  none  could  be  so  bold  as  lay  a  hand  on  the  peculiar  institution 
of  these  islands.  Yet  others  were  convinced.  Savaii  took  heads;  but 
when  they  sent  one  to  Mulinuu  a  messenger  met  them  by  the  convent 
gates  from  the  King;  he  would  none  of  it,  and  the  trophy  must  be 
ingloriously  buried.  Savaii  took  heads  also,  and  Tamasese  accepted  the 
presentation.  Tuamasaga,  on  the  other  hand,  obeyed  the  Chief  Justice, 
and  (the  occasion  being  thrust  upon  them)  contented  themselves  with 
taking  the  dead  man's  ears.  On  the  whole,  about  one  third  of  the  troops 
engaged,  and  our  not  very  firm  Monarch  himself,  kept  the  letter  of  the 

489 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

wdinance.  And  it  was  upon  this  scene  of  partial,  but  really  cheering, 
success  that  the  Consuls  returned  with  their  general  pardon!  The  Chief 
Justice  was  not  six  months  old  in  the  islands.  He  had  succeeded  to  a 
position  complicated  by  the  failure  of  his  predecessor.  Personally,  speak- 
ing face  to  face  with  the  chiefs,  he  had  put  his  authority  in  pledge  that 
the  ordinance  should  be  enforced.  And  he  found  himself  either  forgotten 
or  betrayed  by  the  three  Consuls.  These  volunteers  had  made  a  liar  of 
him ;  they  had  administered  to  him,  before  all  Samoa,  a  triple  buffet.  I 
must  not  wonder,  though  I  may  still  deplore,  that  Mr.  Ide  accepted  the 
position  thus  made  for  him.  There  was  a  deal  of  alarm  in  Apia.  To 
refuse  the  treaty  thus  hastily  and  shamefully  cobbled  up  would  have  in- 
creased it  tenfold.  Already,  since  the  declaration  of  war  and  the  immi- 
nence of  the  results,  one  of  the  papers  had  ratted,  and  the  white  population 
were  girding  at  the  new  ordinance.  It  was  feared  besides  that  the  native 
Government,  though  they  had  voted,  were  secretly  opposed  to  it.  It 
was  almost  certain  they  would  try  to  prevent  its  application  to  the  loyalist 
offenders  of  Savaii  The  three  Consuls  in  the  negotiations  of  the  treaty 
had  fully  illustrated  both  their  want  of  sympathy  with  the  ordinance  and 
their  want  of  regard  for  the  position  of  the  Chief  justice.  "  In  short,  I 
am  to  look  for  no  support,  whether  physical  or  moral  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ide ; 
and  I  could  make  but  the  one  answer— "Neither  physical  nor  moral." 
It  was  a  hard  choice;  and  he  elected  to  accept  the  terms  of  the  treaty 
without  protest.  And  the  next  war  (if  we  are  to  continue  to  enjoy  the 
benefits  of  the  Berlin  Act)  will  probably  show  us  the  result  in  an  enlarged 
assortment  of  heads,  and  the  next  difficulty  perhaps  prove  to  us  the 
diminished  prestige  of  the  Chief  justice.  Mr.  Ide  announces  his  intention 
of  applying  the  law  in  the  case  of  another  war;  but  I  very  much  fear  the 
golden  opportunity  has  again  been  lost.  About  one  third  of  the  troops 
believed  him  this  time;  how  many  will  believe  him  the  next? 

It  will  doubtless  be  answered  that  the  Consuls  were  affected  by  the 
alarm  in  Apia  and  actuated  by  the  desire  to  save  white  lives.  I  am  far 
from  denying  that  there  may  be  danger;  and  I  believe  that  the  way  we 
are  going  is  the  best  way  to  bring  it  on.  In  the  progressive  de-civilisation 
of  these  islands— evidenced  by  the  female  heads  taken  in  the  last  war  and 
the  treatment  of  white  missionaries  in  this— our  methods  of  pull  devil, 
pull  baker,  general  indecision,  and  frequent  (though  always  dignified) 
panic  are  the  best  calculated  in  the  worid  to  bring  on  a  massacre  of  whites. 
A  consistent  dignity,  a  consistent  and  independent  figure  of  a  Chief  Jus^ 

490 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

tice,  the  enforcement  of  the  laws,  and,  above  all,  of  the  laws  against 
barbarity,  a  Consular  Board  the  same  in  the  presence  as  in  the  absence  of 
war-ships,  will  be  found  our  best  defence. 

Much  as  I  have  already  occupied  of  your  space,  1  would  yet  ask  leave 
to  draw  two  conclusions. 

And  first,  Mataafa  and  Tamasese  both  made  war.  Both  wars  were 
presumably  dynastic  in  character,  though  the  Tupua  not  rallying  to 
Tamasese  as  he  had  expected  led  him  to  cover  his  design.  That  he  carried 
a  gun  himself,  and  himself  fired,  will  not  seem  to  European  ears  a  very 
important  alleviation.  Tamasese  received  heads,  sitting  as  a  king,  under 
whatever  name ;  Mataafa  had  forbidden  the  taking  of  heads— of  his  own 
accord,  and  before  Mr.  Ide  had  taken  office.  Tamasese  began  with  threats 
against  the  white  population ;  Mataafa  never  ceased  to  reassure  them  and 
to  extend  an  effectual  protection  to  their  property.  What  is  the  differ- 
ence between  their  cases  ?  That  Mataafa  was  an  old  man,  already  famous, 
who  had  served  his  country  well,  had  been  appointed  King  of  Samoa, 
had  served  in  the  office,  and  had  been  set  aside— not,  indeed,  in  the  text, 
but  in  the  protocols  of  the  Beriin  Act,  by  name  ?  I  do  not  grudge  his 
good  fortune  to  Tamasese,  who  is  an  amiable,  spirited,  and  handsome 
young  man ;  and  who  made  a  barbarous  war,  indeed,  since  heads  were 
taken  after  the  old  Samoan  practice,  but  who  made  it  without  any  of 
the  savagery  which  we  have  had  reason  to  comment  upon  in  the  camp 
of  his  adversaries.  I  do  not  grudge  the  invidious  fate  that  has  befallen 
my  old  friend  and  his  followers.  At  first  I  believed  these  judgments  to 
be  the  expression  of  a  severe  but  equal  justice.  I  find  them,  on  further 
experience,  to  be  mere  measures  of  the  degree  of  panic  in  the  Consuls, 
varying  directly  as  the  distance  of  the  nearest  war-ship.  The  judgments 
under  which  they  fell  have  now  no  sanctity ;  they  form  no  longer  a  pre- 
cedent; they  may  perfectly  well  be  followed  by  a  pardon,  or  a  partial 
pardon,  as  the  authorities  shall  please.  The  crime  of  Mataafa  is  to  have 
read  strictly  the  first  article  of  the  Beriin  Act,  and  not  to  have  read  at  all 
(as  how  should  he  when  it  has  never  been  translated  ?)  the  insidious  pro- 
tocol which  contains  its  significance ;  the  crime  of  his  followers  is  to  have 
practised  clan  fidelity,  and  to  have  in  consequence  raised  an  imperiutn  in 
impervio,  and  fought  against  the  Government.  Their  punishment  is  to 
be  sent  to  a  coral  atoll  and  detained  there  prisoners.  It  does  not  sound 
much ;  it  is  a  great  deal.  Taken  from  a  mountain  island,  they  must  in- 
habit a  narrow  strip  of  reef  sunk  to  the  gunwale  in  the  ocean.    Sand, 

491 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

»tone,  and  cocoanuts,  stone,  sand,  and  pandanus,  make  the  scenery. 
There  is  no  grass.  Here  these  men,  used  to  the  cool,  bright  mountain 
rivers  of  Samoa,  must  drink  with  loathing  the  brackish  water  of  the  coral. 
The  food  upon  such  islands  is  distressing  even  to  the  omnivorous  white. 
To  the  Samoan,  who  has  that  shivering  delicacy  and  ready  disgust  of  the 
child  or  the  rustic  mountaineer,  it  is  intolerable.  I  remember  what  our 
present  King  looked  like,  what  a  phantom  he  was,  when  he  returned 
from  captivity  in  the  same  place.  Lastly,  these  fourteen  have  been 
divorced  from  their  families.  The  daughter  of  Mataafa  somehow  broke 
the  consigne  and  accompanied  her  father;  but  she  only.  To  this  day 
one  of  them,  Palepa,  the  wife  of  Faamoina,  is  dunning  the  authorities  in 
vain  to  be  allowed  to  join  her  husband— she  a  young  and  handsome 
woman,  he  an  old  man  and  infirm.  I  cannot  speak  with  certainty,  but 
I  believe  they  are  allowed  no  communication  with  the  prisoners,  nor  the 
prisoners  with  them.  My  own  open  experience  is  brief  and  conclusive— I 
have  not  been  suffered  to  send  my  friends  one  stick  of  tobacco  or  one 
pound  of  ava.  So  much  to  show  the  hardships  are  genuine.  I  have  to 
ask  a  pardon  for  these  unhappy  victims  of  untranslated  protocols  and 
inconsistent  justice.  After  the  case  of  Tamasese,  I  ask  it  almost  as  of 
right.  As  for  the  other  twenty-seven  in  jail,  let  the  doors  be  opened 
at  once.  They  have  shown  their  patience,  they  have  proved  their  loyalty 
long  enough.  On  two  occasions,  when  the  guards  deserted  in  a  body, 
and  again  when  the  Aana  prisoners  fled,  they  remained— one  may  truly 
say— voluntary  prisoners.  And  at  least  let  them  be  fed!  I  have  paid 
taxes  to  the  Samoan  Government  for  some  four  years,  and  the  most 
sensible  benefit  I  have  received  in  return  has  been  to  be  allowed  to  feed 
their  prisoners. 

Second,  if  the  farce  of  the  Beriin  Act  is  to  be  gone  on  with,  it  will  be 
really  necessary  to  moderate  among  our  five  Sovereigns— six  if  we  are  to 
count  poor  Malietoa,  who  represents  to  the  life  the  character  of  the  Hare 
and  Many  Friends.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Mr.  Ide  and  Herr  Schmidt 
were  chosen  for  their  qualities;  it  is  little  good  we  are  likely  to  get  by 
them  if,  at  every  wind  of  rumour,  the  three  Consuls  are  to  intervene. 
The  three  Consuls  are  paid  far  smaller  salaries,  they  have  no  right  under 
the  treaty  to  interfere  with  the  government  of  autonomous  Samoa,  and 
they  have  contrived  to  make  themselves  all  in  all.  The  King  and  a  ma- 
jority of  the  Faipule  fear  them  and  look  to  them  alone,  while  the  legiti- 
mate ad>iser  occupies  a  second  place,  if  that    The  misconduct  of  MM. 

493 


LETTERS  TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

Cedercrantz  and  Senfft  von  Pilsach  was  so  extreme  that  the  Consuls  were 
obliged  to  encroach;  and  now  when  these  are  gone  the  authority  ac- 
quired in  the  contest  remains  with  the  encroachers.  On  their  side  they 
have  no  rights,  but  a  tradition  of  victory,  the  ear  of  the  Governments  at 
home,  and  the  vis  viva  of  the  war-ships.  For  the  poor  treaty  officials, 
what  have  they  but  rights  very  obscurely  expressed  and  very  weakly  de- 
fended by  their  predecessors  ?  Thus  it  comes  about  that  people  who  are 
scarcely  mentioned  in  the  text  of  the  treaty  are,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, our  only  rulers.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

IX. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  "  TIMES  " 

yailima,  Samoa,  May  22,  1894. 

Sir,— I  told  you  in  my  last  that  the  Consuls  had  tinkered  up  a  treaty 
of  peace  with  the  rebels  of  Aana.  A  month  has  gone  by,  and  I  would 
not  weary  your  readers  with  a  story  so  intricate  and  purposeless.  The 
Consuls  seem  to  have  gone  backward  and  forward,  to  and  fro.  To 
periods  of  agitated  activity,  comparable  to  that  of  three  ants  about  a 
broken  nest,  there  succeeded  seasons  in  which  they  rested  from  their 
labours  and  ruefully  considered  the  result.  1  believe  I  am  not  overstating 
the  case  when  I  say  that  this  treaty  was  at  least  twice  rehandled,  and  the 
date  of  submission  changed,  in  the  interval.  And  yesterday  at  length  we 
beheld  the  first-fruits  of  the  Consular  diplomacy.  A  boat  came  in  from 
Aana  bearing  the  promised  fifty  stand  of  arms— in  other  words,  a  talking 
man,  a  young  chief,  and  some  boatmen  in  charge  of  a  boat-load  of 
broken  ironmongery.  The  Government  (well  advised  for  once)  had 
placed  the  Embassy  under  an  escort  of  German  blue-jackets,  or  I  think  it 
must  have  gone  ill  with  the  Ambassadors. 

So  much  for  Aana  and  the  treaty.  With  Atua,  the  other  disaffected 
province,  we  have  been  and  are  on  the  brink  of  war.  The  woods  have 
been  patrolled,  the  army  sent  to  the  front,  blood  has  been  shed.  It  con- 
sists with  my  knowledge  that  the  loyalist  troops  marched  against  the 
enemy  under  a  hallucination.  One  and  all  believed,  a  majority  of  them 
still  believe,  that  the  war-ships  were  to  follow  and  assist  them.  Who 
told  them  so  ?  If  I  am  to  credit  the  rumours  of  the  natives,  as  well  as 
the  gossip  of  official  circles,  a  promise  had  been  given  to  this  effect  by 
the  Consuls,  or  at  least  by  one  of  the  Consuls.  And  when  1  say  that 
a  promise  had  been  given,  I  mean  that  it  had  been  sold.  I  mean  that 
the  natives  had  to  buy  it  by  submissions. 

493 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

Let  me  take  an  example  of  these  submissions.  The  native  Govern- 
ment increased  the  salary  of  Mr.  Gurr,  the  natives'  advocate.  It  was  not 
a  largesse;  it  was  rather  an  act  of  tardy  justice,  by  which  Mr.  Gurr  re- 
ceived at  last  the  same  emoluments  as  his  predecessor  in  the  office.  At 
the  same  time,  with  a  bankrupt  treasury,  all  fresh  expenses  are  and  must 
be  regarded  askance.  The  President,  acting  under  a  so-called  Treasury 
regulation,  refused  to  honour  the  King's  order.  And  a  friendly  suit  was 
brought,  which  turned  on  the  validity  of  this  Treasury  regulation.  This 
was  more  than  doubtful.  The  President  was  a  treaty  official;  hence 
bound  by  the  treaty.  The  three  Consuls  had  been  acting  for  him  in  his 
absence,  using  his  powers  and  no  other  powers  whatever  under  the  treaty ; 
and  the  three  Consuls  so  acting  had  framed  a  regulation  by  which  the 
powers  of  the  President  were  greatly  extended.  This  was  a  vicious  circle 
with  a  vengeance.  But  the  Consuls,  with  the  ordinary  partiality  of  pa- 
rents for  reformed  offspring,  regarded  the  regulation  as  the  apple  of  their 
eye.  They  made  themselves  busy  in  its  defence,  they  held  interviews,  it 
is  reported  they  drew  pleas ;  and  it  seemed  to  all  that  the  Chief  Justice 
hesitated.  It  is  certain  at  least  that  he  long  delayed  sentence.  And 
during  this  delay  the  Consuls  showed  their  power.  The  native  Govern- 
ment was  repeatedly  called  together,  and  at  last  forced  to  rescind  the 
order  in  favour  of  Mr.  Gurr.  It  was  not  done  voluntarily,  for  the  Gov- 
ernment resisted.  It  was  not  done  by  conviction,  for  the  Government 
has  taken  the  first  opportunity  to  restore  it.  If  the  Consuls  did  not  appear 
personally  in  the  affair— and  I  do  not  know  that  they  did  not— they  made 
use  of  the  President  as  a  mouthpiece ;  and  the  President  delayed  the  de- 
liberations of  the  Government  until  he  should  receive  further  instructions 
from  the  Consuls.  Ten  pounds  is  doubtless  a  considerable  affair  to  a 
bankrupt  Government.  But  what  were  the  Consuls  doing  in  this  matter 
of  inland  administration?  What  was  their  right  to  interfere?  What 
were  the  arguments  with  which  they  overcame  the  resistance  of  the  Gov- 
ernment ?  I  am  either  very  much  misinformed,  or  these  gentlemen  were 
trafficking  in  a  merchandise  which  they  did  not  possess,  and  selling  at  a 
high  price  the  assistance  of  the  war-ships  over  which  (as  now  appears; 
they  have  no  control. 

Remark  the  irony  of  fate.  This  affair  had  no  sooner  been  settled,  Mr. 
Gurr's  claim  cut  at  the  very  root,  and  the  Treasury  regulation  apparently 
set  beyond  cavil,  than  the  Chief  Justice  pulled  himself  together,  and, 
taking  his  life  in  his  right  hand,  delivered  sentence  in  the  case.     Great 

494 


LETTERS  TO  LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

was  the  surprise.  Because  the  Chief  Justice  had  balked  so  long,  it  was 
supposed  he  would  never  have  taken  the  leap.  And  here,  upon  a  sudden, 
he  came  down  with  a  decision  flat  against  the  Consuls  and  their  Treasury 
regulation.  The  Government  have,  I  understand,  restored  Mr.  Gurr's 
salary  in  consequence.  The  Chief  Justice,  after  giving  us  all  a  very  severe 
fright,  has  reinstated  himself  in  public  opinion  by  this  tardy  boldness; 
and  the  Consuls  find  their  conduct  judicially  condemned. 

It  was  on  a  personal  affront  that  the  Consuls  turned  on  Mr.  Ceder- 
crantz.  Here  is  another  affront,  far  more  galling  and  public!  I  suppose 
it  is  but  a  coincidence  that  I  should  find  at  the  same  time  the  clouds 
beginning  to  gather  about  Mr.  Ide's  head.  In  a  telegram,  dated  from 
Auckland,  March  30,  and  copyrighted  by  the  Associated  Press,  I  find  the 
whole  blame  of  the  late  troubles  set  down  to  his  account.  It  is  the  work 
of  a  person  worthy  of  no  trust.  In  one  of  his  charges,  and  in  one  only, 
he  is  right.  The  Chief  Justice  fined  and  imprisoned  certain  chiefs  of  Aana 
under  circumstances  far  from  clear;  the  act  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
susceptible  of  misconstruction,  and  by  natives  will  always  be  thought  of 
as  an  act  of  treachery.  But,  even  for  this,  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to 
split  the  blame  justly  between  Mr.  Ide  and  the  three  Consuls.  In  these 
early  days,  as  now,  the  three  Consuls  were  always  too  eager  to  interfere 
where  they  had  no  business,  and  the  Chief  Justice  was  always  too  patient 
or  too  timid  to  set  them  in  their  place.  For  the  rest  of  the  telegram  no 
qualification  is  needed.  "  The  Chief  Justice  was  compelled  to  take  steps 
to  disarm  the  natives."  He  took  no  such  steps;  he  never  spoke  of  dis- 
armament except  publicly  and  officially  to  disown  the  idea ;  it  was  during 
the  days  of  the  Consular  Triumvirate  that  the  cry  began.  "The  Chief 
Justice  called  upon  Malietoa  to  send  a  strong  force,"  etc. ;  the  Chief  Jus- 
tice "disregarded  the  menacing  attitude  assumed  by  the  Samoans,"  etc. 
—these  are  but  the  delusions  of  a  fever.  The  Chief  Justice  has  played 
no  such  part ;  he  never  called  for  forces ;  he  never  disregarded  menacing 
attitudes,  not  even  those  of  the  Consuls.  What  we  have  to  complain  of 
in  Mr.  Ide  and  Mr.  Schmidt  is  strangely  different.  We  complain  that 
they  have  been  here  since  November,  and  the  three  Consuls  are  still 
allowed,  when  they  are  not  invited,  to  interfere  in  the  least  and  the 
greatest;  that  they  have  been  here  for  upwards  of  six  months,  and 
government  under  the  Berlin  Treaty  is  still  overridden— and  I  may  say 
overlaid— by  the  government  of  the  Consular  Triumvirate. 

This  is  the  main  foundation  of  our  present  discontents.  This  it  is  that 
495 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

we  pray  to  be  relieved  from.  Out  of  six  Sovereigns,  exercising  incon- 
gruous rights  or  usurpations  on  this  unhappy  island,  we  pray  to  be  re- 
lieved of  three.  Th3  Berlin  Treaty  was  not  our  choice;  but  if  we  are  to 
have  it  at  all,  let  us  have  it  plain.  Let  us  have  the  text,  and  nothing  but 
the  text.  Let  the  three  Consuls  who  have  no  position  under  the  treaty 
cease  from  troubling,  cease  from  raising  war  and  making  peace,  from 
passing  illegal  regulations  in  the  face  of  day,  and  from  secretly  black- 
mailing the  Samoan  Government  into  renunciations  of  its  independence. 
Afterwards,  when  we  have  once  seen  it  in  operation,  we  shall  be  able  to 
judge  whether  government  under  the  Berlin  Treaty  suits  or  does  not  suit 
our  case.— I  am,  Sir,  etc.,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


FROM   THE    "daily   CHRONICLE,"   MARCH    l8,   1895 

(Subjoined  is  the  full  text  of  the  late  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  last 
letter  to  Mr.  J.  F.  Hogan,  M.P.  Apart  from  its  pathetic  interest  as 
one  of  the  final  compositions  of  the  distinguished  novelist,  its  eloquent 
terms  of  pleading  for  his  exiled  friend  Mataafa,  and  the  light  it  sheds 
on  Samoan  affairs,  make  it  a  very  noteworthy  and  instructive  docu- 
ment.— Ed.  D  C.) 

Vailima,  October  y,  18^4. 
j.  F.  HoGAN,  EscL.,  M.P. 

Dear  Sir, — My  attention  was  attracted  the  other  day  by  the  thor- 
oughly pertinent  questions  which  you  put  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  which  the  Government  failed  to  answer.  It  put  an  idea  in  my 
head  that  you  were  perhaps  the  man  who  might  take  up  a  task  which  I 
am  almost  ready  to  give  up.  Mataafa  is  now  known  to  be  my  hobby. 
People  laugh  when  they  see  any  mention  of  his  name  over  my  signa- 
ture, and  the  Times,  while  it  still  grants  me  hospitality,  begins  to  lead 
the  chorus.  1  know  that  nothing  can  be  more  fatal  to  Mataafa's 
cause  than  that  he  should  be  made  ridiculous,  and  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing that  a  man  who  makes  his  bread  by  writing  fiction  labours  under 
the  disadvantage  of  suspicion  when  he  touches  on  matters  of  fact.  If 
I  were  even  backed  up  before  the  world  by  one  other  voice,  people 
might  continue  to  listen,  and  in  the  end  something  might  be  done. 
But  so  long  as  I  stand  quite  alone,  telling  the  same  story,  which 
becomes,  apparently,  not  only  more  tedious,  but  less  credible  by 

496 


LETTERS   TO   LONDON   NEWSPAPERS 

repetition,  I  feel  that  I  am  doing  nothing  good,  possibly  even  some 
evil. 

Now,  Sir,  you  have  shown  by  your  questions  in  the  House,  not  only 
that  you  remember  Mataafa,  but  that  you  are  instructed  in  his  case, 
and  this  exposes  you  to  the  trouble  of  reading  this  letter. 

Mataafa  was  made  the  prisoner  of  the  three  Powers.  He  had  been 
guilty  of  rebellion;  but  surely  rather  formally  than  really.  He  was  the 
appointed  King  of  Samoa.  The  treaty  set  him  aside,  and  he  obeyed 
the  three  Powers.  His  successor — or  I  should  rather  say  his  succes- 
sor's advisers  and  surroundings — fell  out  with  him.  He  was  disgusted 
by  the  spectacle  of  their  misgovernment.  In  this  humour  he  fell  to  the 
study  of  the  Berlin  Act,  and  was  misled  by  the  famous  passage,  "  His 
successor  shall  be  duly  elected  according  to  the  laws  and  customs  of 
Samoa."  It  is  to  be  noted  that  what  I  will  venture  to  call  the  infamous 
protocol  —  a  measure  equally  of  German  vanity,  English  cowardice,  and 
American  incuria  —  had  not  been  and  has  never  yet  been  translated 
into  the  Samoan  language.  They  feared  light  because  their  works 
were  darkness.  For  what  he  did  during  what  I  can  only  call  his  can- 
didature, I  must  refer  you  to  the  last  chapter  of  my  book.  It  was 
rebellion  to  the  three  Powers;  to  him  it  was  not  rebellion.  The  troops 
of  the  King  attacked  him  first.  The  sudden  arrival  and  sudden  action 
of  Captain  Bickford  concluded  the  affair  in  the  very  beginning.  Mat- 
aafa surrendered.  He  surrendered  to  Captain  Bickford.  He  was 
brought  back  to  Apia  on  Captain  Bickford's  ship.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  captain  pointing  to  the  British  ensign  and  saying,  '  *  Tell  them  they 
are  safe  under  that."  And  the  next  thing  we  learned,  Mataafa  and 
his  chiefs  were  transferred  to  a  German  war-ship  and  carried  to  the 
Marshalls. 

Who  was  responsible  for  this?  Who  is  responsible  now  for  the  care 
and  good  treatment  of  these  political  prisoners  ?  I  am  far  from  hint- 
ing that  the  Germans  actually  maltreat  him.  I  know  even  that  many 
of  the  Germans  regard  him  with  respect.  But  I  can  only  speak  of  what 
I  know  here.  It  is  impossible  to  send  him  or  any  of  his  chiefs  either 
a  present  or  a  letter.  1  believe  the  mission  (Catholic)  has  been  allowed 
some  form  of  communication.  On  the  same  occasion  I  sent  down  let- 
ters and  presents.  They  were  refused;  and  the  officer  of  the  deck  on 
the  German  war-ship  had  so  little  reticence  as  to  pass  the  remark,  "  O, 
you  see,  you  like  Mataafa;  we  don't."    In  short,  communication  is  so 

497 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

completely  sundered  that  for  anything  we  can  hear  in  Samoa,  they 
may  all  have  been  hanged  at  the  yard-arm  two  days  out. 

To  take  another  instance.  The  high  chief  Faamoina  was  recently 
married  to  a  young  and  pleasing  wife.  She  desired  to  follow  her 
husband,  an  old  man,  in  bad  health,  and  so  deservedly  popular  that 
he  had  been  given  the  by-name  of  ''  Papalagi  Mativa,"  or  "  Poor 
White  Man,"  on  account  of  his  charities  to  our  countrymen.  She  was 
refused.  Again  and  again  she  has  renewed  her  applications  to  be 
allowed  to  rejoin  him,  and  without  the  least  success. 

It  has  been  decreed  by  some  one,  I  know  not  whom,  that  Faamoina 
must  have  no  one  to  nurse  him,  and  that  his  wife  must  be  left  in  the 
anomalous  and  dangerous  position  which  the  Treaty  Powers  have  made 
for  her.  I  have  wearied  myself,  and  I  fear  others,  by  my  attempts  to 
get  a  passage  for  her  or  to  have  her  letters  sent.  Every  one  sympa- 
thises. The  German  ships  now  in  port  are  loud  in  expressions  of  dis- 
approval and  professions  of  readiness  to  help  her.  But  to  whom  can 
we  address  ourselves?  Who  is  responsible?  Who  is  the  unknown 
power  that  sent  Mataafa  in  a  German  ship  to  the  Marshalls,  instead 
of  in  an  English  ship  to  Fiji?  that  has  decreed  since  that  he  shall 
receive  not  even  inconsiderable  gifts  and  open  letters  ?  and  that  keeps 
separated  Faamoina  and  his  wife  ? 

Now,  dear  Sir,  these  are  the  facts,  and  I  think  that  I  maybe  excused 
for  being  angry.  At  the  same  time,  I  am  well  aware  that  an  angry 
man  is  a  bore.  I  am  a  man  with  a  grievance,  and  my  grievance  has 
the  misfortune  to  be  very  small  and  very  far  away.  It  is  very  small, 
for  it  is  only  the  case  of  under  a  score  of  brown-skinned  men  who  have 
been  dealt  with  in  the  dark  by  I  know  not  whom.  And  I  want  to 
know.  I  want  to  know  by  whose  authority  Mataafa  was  given  over 
into  German  hands.  I  want  to  know  by  whose  authority,  and  for  how 
long  a  term  of  years,  he  is  condemned  to  the  miserable  exile  of  a  low 
island.  And  I  want  to  know  how  it  happens  that  what  is  sauce  for 
the  goose  is  not  sauce  for  the  gander  in  Samoa?  —  that  the  German 
enemy  Mataafa  has  been  indefinitely  exiled  for  what  is  after  all  scarce 
more  than  constructive  rebellion,  and  the  German  friend  Tamasese, 
for  a  rebellion  which  has  lasted  long  enough  to  threaten  us  with  fam- 
ine, and  was  disgraced  in  its  beginning  by  ominous  threats  against  the 
whites,  has  been  punished  by  a  fine  of  one  hundred  rifles? 

True,  I  could  sympathise  with  the  German  officers  in  their  embar- 
498 


LETTERS  TO  LONDON  NEWSPAPERS 

rassment.  Here  was  the  son  of  the  old  King  whom  they  had  raised, 
and  whom  they  had  deserted.  What  an  unenviable  office  was  theirs 
when  they  must  make  war  upon,  suppress,  and  make  a  feint  of  pun- 
ishing, this  man  to  whom  they  stood  bound  by  a  hereditary  alliance, 
and  to  whose  father  they  had  already  failed  so  egregiously.  They 
were  loyal  all  round.  They  were  loyal  to  their  Tamasese,  and  got 
him  off  with  his  fine.  And  shall  I  not  be  a  little  loyal  to  Mataafa  ? 
And  will  you  not  help  me  ?  He  is  now  an  old  man,  very  piously 
inclined,  and  I  believe  he  would  enter  at  least  the  lesser  orders  of  the 
Church  if  he  were  suffered  to  come  back.  But  I  do  not  even  ask  so 
much  as  this,  though  I  hope  it.  It  would  be  enough  if  he  were 
brought  back  to  Fiji,  back  to  the  food  and  fresh  water  of  his  childhood, 
back  into  the  daylight  from  the  darkness  of  the  Marshalls,  where  some 
of  us  could  see  him,  where  we  could  write  to  him  and  receive  answers, 
where  he  might  pass  a  tolerable  old  age.  If  you  can  help  me  to  get 
this  done,  I  am  sure  that  you  will  never  regret  it.  In  its  small  way, 
this  is  another  case  of  Toussaint  VOuverture,  not  so  monstrous  if  you 
like,  not  on  so  large  a  scale,  but  with  circumstances  of  small  perfidy 
that  make  it  almost  odious. 

I  may  tell  you  in  conclusion  that,  circumstances  co-operating  with 
my  tedious  insistence,  the  last  of  the  Mataafa  chiefs  here  in  Apia  has 
been  liberated  from  jail.  All  this  time  they  stayed  of  their  own  free- 
Avill,  thinking  it  might  injure  Mataafa  if  they  escaped  when  others 
did.  And  you  will  see  by  the  enclosed  paper  how  these  poor  fellows 
spent  the  first  hours  of  their  liberty.^  You  will  see  also  that  I  am  not 
the  firebrand  that  I  am  sometimes  painted,  and  that  in  helping  me,  if 
you  shall  decide  to  do  so,  you  will  be  doing  nothing  against  the  peace 
and  prosperity  of  Samoa. 

With  many  excuses  for  having  occupied  so  much  of  your  valuable 
time,  I  remain,  yours  truly,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

P.  S. —  On  revisal,  I  observe  some  points:  in  the  first  place,  I  do  not 
believe  Captain  Bickford  was  to  blame;  I  suspect  him  to  have  been  a 
victim.     I  have  been  told,  but  it  seems  incredible,  that  he  underwent 

li.e.,  in  building  a  section  of  a  new  road  to  Mr.  Stevenson's  house. 
The  paper  referred  to  is  a  copy  of  the  Samoa  Times,  containing  a  report 
-of  the  dinner  given  by  Mr.  Stevenson  at  Vailima  to  inaugurate  this  new 
road.     (See  Appendix  to  Vailima  Letters.) 

499 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

an  examination  about  Mataafa's  daughter  having  been  allowed  to 
accompany  him.  Certainly  he  liked  his  job  little,  and  some  of  his 
colleagues  less.  R.  L.  S. 

October  p. 
Latest  intelligence.     We  have  received  at  last  a  letter  from  Mat- 
aafa.     He  is  well  treated  and  has  good  food;  only  complains  of  not 
hearing  from  Samoa.     This  has  very  much  relieved  our  minds.     But 
why  were  they  previously  left  in  the  dark  ?  R.  L.  S. 


500 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 


TO  MISS  B 

yuilima  Plantation  (Spring,  1892). 

Dear  Friend,' —  Please  salute  your  pupils  in  my  name,  and  tell  them 
that  a  long,  lean,  elderly  man  who  lives  right  through  on  the  under 
side  of  the  world,  so  that  down  in  your  cellar  you  are  nearer  him  than 
the  people  in  the  street,  desires  his  compliments. 

This  man  lives  on  an  island  which  is  not  very  long  and  is  extremely 
narrow.  The  sea  beats  round  it  very  hard,  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  get 
to  shore.  There  is  only  one  harbour  where  ships  come,  and  even  that 
is  very  wild  and  dangerous;  four  ships  of  war  were  broken  there  a  little 
while  ago,  and  one  of  them  is  still  lying  on  its  side  on  a  rock  clean 
above  water,  where  the  sea  threw  it  as  you  might  throw  your  fiddle- 
bow  upon  the  table.  All  round  the  harbour  the  town  is  strung  out: 
it  is  nothing  but  wooden  houses,  only  there  are  some  churches  built 

iThe  lady  to  whom  the  first  three  of  these  letters  are  addressed  "  used 
to  hear"  (writes  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne)  "so  frequently  of  the  'boys'  in 
Vailima  that  she  wrote  and  asked  Mr.  Stevenson  for  news  of  them,  as  it 
would  so  much  interest  her  little  girls.  In  the  tropics,  for  some  reason  or 
other  that  it  is  impossible  to  understand,  servants  and  work-people  are  al- 
ways called  '  boys,'  though  the  years  of  Methuselah  may  have  whitened 
their  heads,  and  great-grandchildren  prattle  about  their  knees.  Mr. 
Stevenson  was  amused  to  think  that  his  •  boys,'  who  ranged  from  eighteen 
years  of  age  to  threescore  and  ten,  should  be  mistaken  for  little  youngsters ; 
but  he  was  touched  to  hear  of  the  sick  children  his  friend  tried  so  hard  to 
entertain,  and  gladly  wrote  a  few  letters  to  them.  He  would  have  written 
more  but  for  the  fact  that  his  friend  left  the  home,  being  transferred  else- 
where." 

501 


LETTERS  FROM   SAMOA 

of  stone.  They  are  not  very  large,  but  the  people  have  never  seen 
such  fine  buildings.  Almost  all  the  houses  are  of  one  story.  Away 
at  one  end  of  the  village  lives  the  king  of  the  whole  country.  His 
palace  has  a  thatched  roof  which  rests  upon  posts;  there  are  no  walls, 
but  when  it  blows  and  rains,  they  have  Venetian  blinds  which  they 
let  down  between  the  posts,  making  all  very  snug.  There  is  no  fur- 
niture, and  the  king  and  the  queen  and  the  courtiers  sit  and  eat  on  the 
floor,  which  is  of  gravel;  the  lamp  stands  there  too,  and  every  now 
and  then  it  is  upset. 

These  good  folks  wear  nothing  but  a  kilt  about  their  waists,  unless 
to  go  to  church  or  for  a  dance  on  the  New  Year  or  some  great  occa- 
sion. The  children  play  marbles  all  along  the  street;  and  though  they 
are  generally  very  jolly,  yet  they  get  awfully  cross  over  their  marbles, 
and  cry  and  fight  just  as  boys  and  girls  do  at  home.  Another  amuse- 
ment in  country  places  is  to  shoot  fish  with  a  little  bow  and  arrow. 
All  round  the  beach  there  is  bright  shallow  water,  where  the  fishes  can 
be  seen  darting  or  lying  in  shoals.  The  child  trots  round  the  shore, 
and  whenever  he  sees  a  fish,  lets  fly  an  arrow,  and  misses,  and  then 
wades  in  after  his  arrow.  It  is  great  fun  (I  have  tried  it)  for  the  child, 
and  1  never  heard  of  it  doing  any  harm  to  the  fishes:  so  what  could  be 
more  jolly  ? 

The  road  to  this  lean  man's  house  is  up  hill  all  the  way,  and  through 
forests;  the  trees  are  not  so  much  unlike  those  at  home,  only  here  and 
there  some  very  queer  ones  are  mixed  with  them  —  cocoanut-palms, 
and  great  trees  that  are  covered  with  bloom  like  red  hawthorn  but  not 
near  so  bright ;  and  from  them  all  thick  creepers  hang  down  like  ropes, 
and  ugly-looking  weeds  that  they  call  orchids  grow  in  the  forks  of  the 
branches;  and  on  the  ground  many  prickly  things  are  dotted,  which 
they  call  pineapples.     I  suppose  every  one  has  eaten  pineapple  drops. 

On  the  way  up  to  the  lean  man's  house,  you  pass  a  little  village,  all 
of  houses  like  the  king's  house,  so  that  as  you  ride  by  you  can  see  every- 
body sitting  at  dinner,  or,  if  it  is  night,  lying  in  their  beds  by  lamp- 
light; because  all  the  people  are  terribly  afraid  of  ghosts,  and  would 
not  lie  in  the  dark  for  anything.  After  the  village,  there  is  only  one 
more  house,  and  that  is  the  lean  man's.  For  the  people  are  not  very 
many,  and  live  all  by  the  sea,  and  the  whole  inside  of  the  island  is 
desert  woods  and  mountains.  When  the  lean  man  goes  into  the 
forest,  he  is  very  much  ashamed  to  own  it,  but  he  is  always  in  a  ter- 

502 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG   PEOPLE 

rible  fright.  The  wood  is  so  great,  and  empty,  and  hot,  and  it  is 
always  filled  with  curious  noises:  birds  cry  like  children,  and  bark  like 
dogs;  and  he  can  hear  people  laughing  and  felling  tfees;  and  the  other 
day  (when  he  was  far  in  the  woods)  he  heard  a  sound  like  the  biggest 
mill-wheel  possible,  going  with  a  kind  of  dot-and-carry-one  movement 
like  a  dance.  That  was  the  noise  of  an  earthquake  away  down  below 
him  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth;  and  that  is  the  same  thing  as  to  say 
away  up  towards  you  in  your  cellar  in  Kilburn.  All  these  noises  make 
him  feel  lonely  and  scared,  and  he  does  n't  quite  know  what  he  is 
scared  of.  Once  when  he  was  just  about  to  cross  a  river,  a  blow 
struck  him  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and  knocked  him  head-foremost 
down  the  bank  and  splash  into  the  water.  It  was  a  nut,  I  fancy,  that 
had  fallen  from  a  tree,  by  which  accident  people  are  sometimes  killed. 
But  at  the  time  he  thought  it  was  a  Black  Boy. 

"  Aha,"  say  you,  "  and  what  is  a  Black  Boy?  "  Well,  there  are  a 
lot  of  poor  people  here  who  are  brought  to  Samoa  from  distant  islands 
to  labour  for  the  Germans.  They  are  not  at  all  like  the  king  and  his 
people,  who  are  brown  and  very  pretty;  for  these  are  black  as  negroes 
and  as  ugly  as  sin,  poor  souls,  and  in  their  own  land  they  live  all  the 
time  at  war,  and  cook  and  eat  men's  flesh.  The  Germans  make  them 
work;  and  every  now  and  then  some  run  away  into  the  Bush,  as  the 
forest  is  called,  and  build  little  sheds  of  leaves,  and  eat  nuts  and  roots 
and  fruits,  and  dwell  there  by  themselves.  Sometimes  they  are  bad, 
and  wild,  and  people  whisper  to  each  other  that  some  of  them  have 
gone  back  to  their  horrid  old  habits,  and  catch  men  and  women  in 
order  to  eat  them.  But  it  is  very  likely  not  true;  and  the  most  of 
them  are  poor,  half- starved,  pitiful  creatures,  like  frightened  dogs. 
Their  life  is  all  very  well  when  the  sun  shines,  as  it  does  eight  or  nine 
months  in  the  year.  But  it  is  very  different  the  rest  of  the  time.  The 
wind  rages  then  most  violently.  The  great  trees  thrash  about  like 
whips;  the  air  is  filled  with  leaves  and  branches  flying  like  birds;  and 
the  sound  of  the  trees  falling  shakes  the  earth.  It  rains,  too,  as  it  never 
rains  at  home.  You  can  hear  a  shower  while  it  is  yet  half  a  mile  away, 
hissing  like  a  shower-bath  in  the  forest;  and  when  it  comes  to  you, 
the  water  blinds  your  eyes,  and  the  cold  drenching  takes  your  breath 
away  as  though  some  one  had  struck  you.  In  that  kind  of  weather  it 
must  be  dreadful  indeed  to  live  in  the  woods,  one  man  alone  by  him- 
self.    And  you  must  know  that  if  the  lean  man  feels  afraid  to  be  in 

503 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

the  forest,  the  people  of  the  island  and  the  Black  Boys  are  much  more 
afraid  than  he;  for  they  believe  the  woodg  to  be  quite  filled  with 
spirits;  some  like  pigs,  and  some  like  flying  things;  but  others  (and 
these  afe  thought  the  most  dangerous)  in  the  shape  of  beautiful  young 
women  and  young  men,  beautifully  dressed  in  the  island  manner,  with 
fine  kilts  and  fine  necklaces,  and  crosses  of  scarlet  seeds  and  flowers. 
Woe  betide  him  or  her  who  gets  to  speak  with  one  of  these!  They 
will  be  charmed  out  of  their  wits,  and  come  home  again  quite  silly, 
and  go  mad  and  die.  So  that  the  poor  runaway  Black  Boy  must  be 
always  trembling,  and  looking  about  for  the  coming  of  the  demons. 

Sometimes  the  women-demons  go  down  out  of  the  woods  into  the 
villages;  and  here  is  a  tale  the  lean  man  heard  last  year:  One  of  the 
islanders  was  sitting  in  his  house,  and  he  had  cooked  fish.  There 
came  along  the  road  two  beautiful  young  women,  dressed  as  I  told 
you,  who  came  into  his  house,  and  asked  for  some  of  his  fish.  It  is 
the  fashion  in  the  islands  always  to  give  what  is  asked,  and  never  to 
ask  folks'  names.  So  the  man  gave  them  fish,  and  talked  to  them  in 
the  island  jesting  way.  Presently  he  asked  one  of  the  women  for  her 
red  necklace;  which  is  good  manners  and  their  way:  he  had  given  the 
fish,  and  he  had  a  right  to  ask  for  something  back.  "  I  will  give  it 
you  by-and-by,"  said  the  woman,  and  she  and  her  companion  went 
away;  but  he  thought  they  were  gone  very  suddenly,  and  the  truth  is 
they  had  vanished.  The  night  was  nearly  come,  when  the  man  heard 
the  voice  of  the  woman  crying  that  he  should  come  to  her,  and  she 
would  give  the  necklace.  He  looked  out,  and  behold!  she  was  stand- 
ing calling  him  from  the  top  of  the  sea,  on  which  she  stood  as  you 
might  stand  on  the  table.  At  that,  fear  came  on  the  man;  he  fell  on 
his  knees  and  prayed,  and  the  woman  disappeared. 

It  was  said  afterwards  that  this  was  once  a  woman,  indeed,  but  she 
should  have  died  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  has  lived  all  that  while  as 
an  evil  spirit  in  the  woods  beside  the  spring  of  a  river.  Sau-mai-afe  i 
is  her  name,  in  case  you  want  to  write  to  her. 

Ever  your  friend  (for  whom  I  thank  the  stars), 

TusiTALA  (Tale-writer). 

1 "  Come-a-thousand." 


504 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG   PEOPLE 


TO  MISS    B 

yailima  Plantation,  14  Aug.,  i8p2. 

.  .  .  The  lean  man  is  exceedingly  ashamed  of  himself,  and  offers 
his  apologies  to  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  just  above.  If  they  will  be 
so  good  as  to  knock  three  times  upon  the  floor,  he  will  hear  it  on  the 
other  side  of  his  floor,  and  will  understand  that  he  is  forgiven, 

I  left  you  and  the  children  still  on  the  road  to  the  lean  man's  house, 
where  a  great  part  of  the  forest  has  now  been  cleared  away.  It  comes 
back  again  pretty  quick,  though  not  quite  so  high;  but  everywhere, 
except  where  the  weeders  have  been  kept  busy,  young  trees  have 
sprouted  up,  and  the  cattle  and  the  horses  cannot  be  seen  as  they  feed. 
In  this  clearing  there  are  two  or  three  houses  scattered  about,  and  be- 
tween the  two  biggest  I  think  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  would  first 
notice  a  sort  of  thing  like  a  gridiron  on  legs,  made  of  logs  of  wood. 
Sometimes  it  has  a  flag  flying  on  it,  made  of  rags  of  old  clothes.  It  is 
a  fort  (as  I  am  told)  built  by  the  person  here  who  would  be  much  the 
most  interesting  to  the  girls  in  the  cellar.  This  is  a  young  gentleman 
of  eleven  years  of  age,  answering  to  the  name  of  Austin.  It  was  after 
reading  a  book  about  the  Red  Indians  that  he  thought  it  more  prudent 
to  create  this  place  of  strength.  As  the  Red  Indians  are  in  North 
America,  and  this  fort  seems  to  me  a  very  useless  kind  of  building,  I 
anxiously  hope  that  the  two  may  never  be  brought  together.  When 
Austin  is  not  engaged  in  building  forts,  nor  on  his  lessons,  which  are 
just  as  annoying  to  him  as  other  children's  lessons  are  to  them,  he 
walks  sometimes  in  the  Bush,  and  if  anybody  is  with  him,  talks  all  the 
time.  When  he  is  alone  I  don't  think  he  says  anything,  and  I  dare 
say  he  feels  very  lonely  and  frightened,  just  as  the  Samoan  does,  at 
the  queer  noises  and  the  endless  lines  of  trees. 

He  finds  the  strangest  kinds  of  seeds,  some  of  them  bright-coloured 
like  lollipops,  or  really  like  precious  stones;  some  of  them  in  odd  cases  like 
tobacco-pouches.  He  finds  and  collects  all  kinds  of  little  shells,  with 
which  the  whole  ground  is  scattered,  and  that,  though  they  are  the 
shells  of  land  creatures  like  our  snails,  are  of  nearly  as  many  shapes  and 
colours  as  the  shells  on  our  sea-beaches.  In  the  streams  that  come 
running  down  out  of  our  mountains,  all  as  clear  and  bright  as  mirror- 

505 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

glass,  he  sees  eels  and  little  bright  fish  that  sometimes  jump  together 
out  of  the  surface  of  the  brook  in  a  spray  of  silver,  and  fresh-water 
prawns  which  lie  close  under  the  stones,  looking  up  at  him  through  the 
water  with  eyes  the  colour  of  a  jewel.  He  sees  all  kinds  of  beautiful 
birds,  some  of  them  blue  and  white,  and  some  of  them  coloured  like  our 
pigeons  at  home;  and  these  last,  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  may  like  to 
know,  live  almost  entirely  on  wild  nutmegs  as  they  fall  ripe  off  the  trees. 
Another  little  bird  he  may  sometimes  see,  as  the  lean  man  saw  him 
only  this  morning:  a  little  fellow  not  so  big  as  a  man's  hand,  exqui- 
sitely neat,  of  a  pretty  bronzy  black  like  ladies'  shoes,  who  sticks  up 
behind  him  (much  as  a  peacock  does)  his  little  tail,  shaped  and  fluted 
like  a  scallop-shell. 

Here  there  are  a  lot  of  curious  and  interesting  things  that  Austin  sees 
all  round  him  every  day;  and  when  I  was  a  child  at  home  in  the  old 
country  I  used  to  play  and  pretend  to  myself  that  I  saw  things  of  the 
same  kind  —  that  the  rooms  were  full  of  orange  and  nutmeg  trees,  and 
the  cold  town  gardens  outside  the  windows  were  alive  with  parrots 
and  with  lions.  What  do  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar  think  that  Austin 
does?  He  makes  believe  just  the  other  way;  he  pretends  that  the 
strange  great  trees  with  their  broad  leaves  and  slab-sided  roots  are  Eu- 
ropean oaks;  and  the  places  on  the  road  up  (where  you  and  I  and  the 
little  girls  in  the  cellar  have  already  gone)  he  calls  old-fashioned,  far- 
away European  names,  just  as  if  you  were  to  call  the  cellar-stair  and 
the  corner  of  the  next  street  —  if  you  could  only  manage  to  pronounce 
their  names  —  Upolu  and  Savaii.  And  so  it  is  with  all  of  us,  with 
Austin,  and  the  lean  man,  and  the  little  girls  in  the  cellar:  wherever 
we  are,  it  is  but  a  stage  on  the  way  to  somewhere  else,  and  whatever 
we  do,  however  well  we  do  it,  it  is  only  a  preparation  to  do  something 
else  that  shall  be  different. 

But  you  must  not  suppose  that  Austin  does  nothing  but  build  forts, 
and  walk  among  the  woods,  and  swim  in  the  rivers.  On  the  contrary, 
he  is  sometimes  a  very  busy  and  useful  fellow;  and  I  think  the  little 
girls  in  the  cellar  would  have  admired  him  very  nearly  as  much  as  he 
admired  himself,  if  they  had  seen  him  setting  off  on  horseback,  with 
his  hand  on  his  hip,  and  his  pocket  full  of  letters  and  orders,  at  the 
head  of  quite  a  procession  of  huge  white  cart-horses  with  pack-saddles, 
and  big,  brown  native  men  with  nothing  on  but  gaudy  kilts.  Mighty 
well  he  managed  all  his  commissions;  and  those  who  saw  him  ordering 

506 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG  PEOPLE 

and  eating  his  single-handed  luncheon  in  the  queer  little  Chinese 
restaurant  on  the  beach  declare  he  looked  as  if  the  place,  and  the 
town,  and  the  whole  archipelago  belonged  to  him. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  suppose  that  this  great  gentleman  at 
the  head  of  all  his  horses  and  his  men,  like  the  King  of  France  in  the 
old  rhyme,  would  be  thought  much  of  a  dandy  on  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don. On  the  contrary,  if  he  could  be  seen  with  his  dirty  white  cap 
and  his  faded  purple  shirt,  and  his  little  brown  breeks  that  do  not 
reach  his  knees,  and  the  bare  shanks  below,  and  the  bare  feet  stuck  in 
the  stirrup-leathers  —  for  he  is  not  quite  long  enough  to  reach  the  irons 
—  I  am  afraid  the  little  girls  and  boys  in  your  part  of  the  town  might 
be  very  much  inclined  to  give  him  a  penny  in  charity.  So  you  see 
that  a  very  big  man  in  one  place  might  seem  very  small  potatoes  in 
another,  just  as  the  king's  palace  here  (of  which  I  told  you  in  my  last) 
would  be  thought  rather  a  poor  place  of  residence  by  a  Surrey  gipsy. 
And  if  you  come  to  that,  even  the  lean  man  himself,  who  is  no  end 
of  an  important  person,  if  he  were  picked  up  from  the  chair  where  he 
is  now  sitting,  and  slung  down,  feet-foremost,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Charing  Cross,  would  probably  have  to  escape  into  the  nearest  shop, 
or  take  the  risk  of  being  mobbed.  And  the  ladies  of  his  family,  who 
are  very  pretty  ladies,  and  think  themselves  uncommonly  well  dressed 
for  Samoa,  would  (if  the  same  thing  were  to  be  done  to  them)  be  ex- 
tremely glad  to  get  into  a  cab.  .  .  .  Tusitala. 

Ill 

UNDER   COVER   TO   MISS    B 

Vailima,  4  Sept.,  1892. 
Dear  Children  in  the  Cellar, —  I  told  you  before  something  of  the 
Black  Boys  who  come  here  to  work  on  the  plantations,  and  some  of 
whom  run  away  and  live  a  wildlife  in  the  forests  of  the  island.^    Now 

1  The  German  company,  from  which  we  got  our  black  boy  Arick,  owns 
and  cultivates  many  thousands  of  acres  in  Samoa,  and  keeps  at  least  a 
thousand  black  people  to  work  on  its  plantations.  Two  schooners  are 
always  busy  in  bringing  fresh  batches  to  Samoa,  and  in  taking  home  to 
their  own  islands  the  men  who  have  worked  out  their  three  years'  term  of 
labour.  This  traffic  in  human  beings  is  called  the  "  labour  trade,"  and  is 
the  life's  blood,  not  only  of  the  great  German  company,  but  of  all  the 
planters  in  Fiji,  Queensland,  New  Caledonia.  German  New  Guinea,  the 

507 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

I  want  to  tell  you  of  one  who  lived  in  the  house  of  the  lean  man.  Like 
the  rest  of  them  here,  he  is  a  little  fellow,  and  when  he  goes  about  in 
old  battered  cheap  European  clothes,  looks  very  small  and  shabby. 
When  first  he  came  he  was  as  lean  as  a  tobacco-pipe,  and  his  smile 
(like  that  of  almost  all  the  others)  was  the  sort  that  half  makes  you 
wish  to  smile  yourself,  and  half  wish  to  cry.  However,  the  boys  in  the 
kitchen  took  him  in  hand  and  fed  him  up.  They  would  set  him  down 
alone  to  table,  and  wait  upon  him  till  he  had  his  fill,  which  was  a  good 
long  time  to  wait.  The  first  thing  we  noticed  was  that  his  little 
stomach  began  to  stick  out  like  a  pigeon's  breast;  and  then  the  food 
got  a  little  wider  spread,  and  he  started  little  calves  to  his  legs;  and  last 
of  all,  he  began  to  get  quite  saucy  and  impudent.  He  is  really  what 
you  ought  to  call  a  young  man,  though  1  suppose  nobody  in  the  whole 
wide  world  has  any  idea  of  his  age;  and  so  far  as  his  behaviour  goes, 
you  can  only  think  of  him  as  a  big  little  child  with  a  good  deal  of 
sense. 

When  Austin  built  his  fort  against  the  Indians,  Arick  (for  that  is  the 
Black  Boy's  name)  liked  nothing  so  much  as  to  help  him.  And  this  is 
very  funny,  when  you  think  that  of  all  the  dangerous  savages  in  this 
island  Arick  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous.  The  other  day,  besides,  he 
made  Austin  a  musical  instrument  of  the  sort  they  use  in  his  own  coun- 
try—  a  harp  with  only  one  string.  He  took  a  stick  about  three  feet 
long  and  perhaps  four  inches  round.  The  under  side  he  hollowed  out 
in  a  deep  trench  to  serve  as  a  sounding-box;  the  two  ends  of  the  upper 
side  he  made  to  curve  upward  like  the  ends  of  a  canoe,  and  between 
these  he  stretched  the  single  string.  He  plays  upon  it  with  a  match 
or  a  little  piece  of  stick,  and  sings  to  it  songs  of  his  own  country,  of 
which  no  person  here  can  understand  a  single  word,  and  which  are, 
very  likely,  all  about  fighting  with  his  enemies  in  battle,  and  killing 

Solomon  Islands,  and  the  New  Hebrides.  The  difference  between  the 
labour  trade,  as  it  is  now  carried  on  under  Government  supervision,  and 
the  slave  trade  is  a  great  one,  but  not  great  enough  to  please  sensitive 
people.  In  Samoa  the  missionaries  are  not  allowed  by  the  company  to 
teach  these  poor  savages  religion,  or  to  do  anything  to  civihse  them  and 
raise  them  from  their  monkey-like  ignorance.  But  in  other  respects  the 
company  is  not  a  bad  master,  and  treats  its  people  pretty  well.  The  sys- 
tem, however,  is  one  that  cannot  be  defended  and  must  sooner  or  later  be 
suppressed.— [L.  O.] 

508 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG  PEOPLE 

them,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  cooking  them  in  a  ground-oven,  and  eat- 
ing them  for  supper  when  the  fight  is  over. 

For  Arick  is  really  what  you  call  a  savage,  though  a  savage  is  a  very 
different  sort  of  a  person,  and  very  much  nicer  than  he  is  made  to 
appear  in  little  books.  He  is  the  kind  of  person  that  everybody  smiles 
to,  or  makes  faces  at,  or  gives  a  smack  as  he  goes  by;  the  sort  of  per- 
son that  all  the  girls  on  the  plantation  give  the  best  seat  to  and  help 
first,  and  love  to  decorate  with  flowers  and  ribbons,  and  yet  all  the  while 
are  laughing  at  him;  the  sort  of  person  who  likes  best  to  play  with 
Austin,  and  whom  Austin,  perhaps  (when  he  is  allowed),  likes  best  to 
play  with.  He  is  all  grins  and  giggles  and  little  steps  out  of  dances, 
and  little  droll  ways  to  attract  people's  attention  and  set  them  laugh- 
ing. And  yet,  when  you  come  to  look  at  him  closely,  you  will  find 
that  his  body  is  all  covered  with  scars  !  This  happened  when  he  was 
a  child.  There  was  war,  as  is  the  way  in  these  wild  islands,  between 
his  village  and  the  next,  much  as  if  there  were  war  in  London  between 
one  street  and  another;  and  all  the  children  ran  about  playing  in  the 
middle  of  the  trouble,  and,  I  dare  say,  took  no  more  notice  of  the  war 
than  you  children  in  London  do  of  a  general  election.  But  sometimes, 
at  general  elections,  English  children  may  get  run  over  by  processions 
in  the  street;  and  it  chanced  that  as  little  Arick  was  running  about  in 
the  Bush,  and  very  busy  about  his  playing,  he  ran  into  the  midst  of  the 
warriors  on  the  other  side.  These  speared  him  with  a  poisoned  spear; 
and  his  own  people,  when  they  had  found  him,  in  order  to  cure  him 
of  the  poison  scored  him  with  knives  that  were  probably  made  of  fish- 
bone. 

This  is  a  very  savage  piece  of  child-life ;  and  Arick,  for  all  his  good- 
nature, is  still  a  very  savage  person.  I  have  told  you  how  the  Black 
Boys  sometimes  run  away  from  the  plantations,  and  live  alone  in  the 
forest,  building  little  sheds  to  protect  them  from  the  rain,  and  some- 
times planting  little  gardens  for  food ;  but  for  the  most  part  living  the 
best  they  can  upon  the  nuts  of  the  trees  and  the  yams  that  they  dig 
with  their  hands  out  of  the  earth.  I  do  not  think  there  can  be  any- 
where in  the  world  people  more  wretched  than  these  runaways.  They 
cannot  return,  for  they  would  only  return  to  be  punished ;  they  can 
never  hope  to  see  again  their  own  people— indeed,  I  do  not  know 
what  they  can  hope,  but  just  to  find  enough  yams  every  day  to  keep 
them  from  starvation.     And  in  the  wet  season  of  the  year,  which  is 

509 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

our  summer  and  your  winter,  when  the  rain  falls  day  after  day  far 
harder  and  louder  than  the  loudest  thunder-plump  that  ever  fell  in 
England,  and  the  room  is  so  dark  that  the  lean  man  is  sometimes  glad 
to  light  his  lamp  to  write  by,  I  can  think  of  nothing  so  dreary  as  the 
state  of  these  poor  runaways  in  the  houseless  Bush.  You  are  to  re- 
member, besides,  that  the  people  of  the  island  hate  and  fear  them  be- 
cause they  are  cannibals;  sit  and  tell  tales  of  them  about  their  lamps 
at  night  in  their  own  comfortable  houses,  and  are  sometimes  afraid  to 
lie  down  to  sleep  if  they  think  there  is  a  lurking  Black  Boy  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Well,  now,  Arick  is  of  their  own  face  and  language, 
only  he  is  a  little  more  lucky  because  he  has  not  run  away;  and  how 
do  you  think  that  he  proposed  to  help  them  ?  He  asked  if  he  might 
not  have  a  gun.  "What  do  you  want  with  a  gun,  Arick?"  was 
asked.  He  answered  quite  simply,  and  with  his  nice,  good-natured 
smile,  that  if  he  had  a  gun  he  would  go  up  into  the  High  Bush  and 
shoot  Black  Boys  as  men  shoot  pigeons.  He  said  nothing  about  eating 
them,  nor  do  I  think  he  really  meant  to;  I  think  all  he  wanted  was  to 
clear  the  plantation  of  vermin,  as  gamekeepers  at  home  kill  weasels 
or  rats. 

The  other  day  he  was  sent  on  an  errand  to  the  German  company 
where  many  of  the  Black  Boys  live.  It  was  very  late  when  he  came 
home.  He  had  a  white  bandage  around  his  head,  his  eyes  shone,  and 
he  could  scarcely  speak  for  excitement.  It  seems  some  of  the  Black 
Boys  who  were  his  enemies  at  home  had  attacked  him,  one  with  a 
knife.  By  his  own  account,  he  had  fought  very  well ;  but  the  odds 
were  heavy.  The  man  with  the  knife  had  cut  him  both  in  the  head 
and  back;  he  had  been  struck  down;  and  if  some  Black  Boys  of  his 
own  side  had  not  come  to  the  rescue,  he  must  certainly  have  been 
killed.  I  am  sure  no  Christmas  box  could  make  any  of  you  children 
so  happy  as  this  fight  made  Arick.  A  great  part  of  the  next  day  he 
neglected  his  work  to  play  upon  the  one-stringed  harp  and  sing  songs 
about  his  great  victory.  To-day,  when  he  is  gone  upon  his  holiday, 
he  has  announced  that  he  is  going  back  to  the  German  firm  to  have 
another  battle  and  another  triumph.  I  do  not  think  he  will  go,  all  the 
same,  or  I  should  be  uneasy;  for  I  do  not  want  to  have  my  Arick 
killed;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  if  he  begin  this  fight  again,  he  will 
be  likely  to  go  on  with  it  very  far.  For  I  have  seen  him  once  when  he 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  an  enemy. 

510 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 

It  was  one  of  those  dreadful  days  of  rain,  the  sound  of  it  like  a  great 
waterfall,  or  like  a  tempest  of  wind  blowing  in  the  forest;  and  there 
came  to  our  door  two  runaway  Black  Boys  seeking  refuge.  In  such 
weather  as  that  my  enemy's  dog  (as  Shakespeare  says)  should  have 
had  a  right  to  shelter.  But  when  Arick  saw  the  two  poor  rogues  com- 
ing with  their  empty  stomachs  and  drenched  clothes,  one  of  them  with 
a  stolen  cutlass  in  his  hand,  through  that  world  of  falling  water,  he 
Jiad  no  thought  of  any  pity  in  his  heart.  Crouching  behind  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  verandah,  to  which  he  clung  with  his  two  hands,  his 
mouth  drew  back  into  a  strange  sort  of  smile,  his  eyes  grew  bigger 
and  bigger,  and  his  whole  face  was  just  like  the  one  word  MURDER 
in  big  capitals. 

But  I  have  told  you  a  great  deal  too  much  about  poor  Arick's  savage 
nature,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  of  a  great  amusement  he  had  the  other 
day.  There  came  an  English  ship  of  war  into  the  harbour,  and  the 
officers  good-naturedly  gave  an  entertainment  of  songs  and  dances  and 
a  magic  lantern,  to  which  Arick  and  Austin  were  allowed  to  go.  At 
the  door  of  the  hall  there  were  crowds  of  Black  Boys  waiting  and  try- 
ing to  peep  in,  as  children  at  home  lie  about  and  peep  under  the  tent 
of  a  circus;  and  you  may  be  sure  Arick  was  a  very  proud  person  when 
he  passed  them  all  by,  and  entered  the  hall  with  his  ticket. 

I  wish  I  knew  what  he  thought  of  the  whole  performance;  but  a 
friend  of  the  lean  man,  who  sat  just  in  front  of  Arick,  tells  me  what 
seemed  to  startle  him  most.  The  first  thing  was  when  two  of  the 
officers  came  out  with  blackened  faces^  like  minstrels,  and  began  to 
dance.  Arick  was  sure  that  they  were  really  black,  and  his  own  peo- 
ple, and  he  was  wonderfully  surprised  to  see  them  dance  in  this  new 
European  style. 

But  the  great  affair  was  the  magic  lantern.  The  hall  was  made 
quite  dark,  which  was  very  little  to  Arick's  taste.  He  sat  there  behind 
my  friend,  nothing  to  be  seen  of  him  but  eyes  and  teeth,  and  his  heart 
was  beating  finely  in  his  little  scarred  breast.  And  presently  there 
came  out  of  the  white  sheet  that  great  big  eye  of  light  that  I  am  sure 
all  of  you  children  must  have  often  seen.  It  was  quite  new  to  Arick; 
he  had  no  idea  what  would  happen  next,  and  in  his  fear  and  excite- 
ment he  laid  hold  with  his  little  slim  black  fingers  like  a  bird's  claw  on 
the  neck  of  the  friend  in  front  of  him.  All  through  the  rest  of  the 
show,  as  one  picture  followed  another  on  the  white  sheet,  he  sat 

5>i 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

there  grasping  and  clutching,  and  goodness  knows  whether  he  were 
more  pleased  or  frightened. 

Doubtless  it  was  a  very  fine  thing  to  see  all  those  bright  pictures 
coming  out  and  dying  away  again,  one  after  another;  but  doubtless 
it  was  rather  alarming  also,  for  how  was  it  done  ?  At  last  when  there 
appeared  upon  the  screen  the  head  of  a  black  woman  (as  it  might  be 
his  own  mother  or  sister),  and  this  black  woman  of  a  sudden  began  to 
roll  her  eyes,  the  fear  or  the  excitement,  whichever  it  was,  wrung  out 
of  him  a  loud,  shuddering  sob.  I  think  we  all  ought  to  admire  his 
courage  when,  after  an  evening  spent  in  looking  at  such  wonderful 
miracles,  he  and  Austin  set  out  alone  through  the  forest  to  the  lean 
man's  house.  It  was  late  at  night  and  pitch-dark  when  some  of  the 
party  overtook  the  little  white  boy  and  the  big  black  boy,  marching 
among  the  trees  with  their  lantern.  I  have  told  you  this  wood  has  an 
ill  name,  and  all  the  people  of  the  island  believe  it  to  be  full  of  evil 
spirits;  it  is  a  pretty  dreadful  place  to  walk  in  by  the  moving  light  of 
a  lantern,  with  nothing  about  you  but  a  curious  whirl  of  shadows, 
and  the  black  night  above  and  beyond.  But  Arick  kept  his  courage 
up,  and  I  dare  say  Austin's  too,  with  a  perpetual  chatter,  so  that  the 
people  coming  after  heard  his  voice  long  before  they  saw  the  shining 
of  the  lantern.  Tusitala. 

IV 

TO  AUSTIN   STRONG 

Vailima,  November  2,  1892, 
Mr  DEAR  Austin, —  First  and  foremost  I  think  you  will  be  sorry  to 
hear  that  our  poor  friend  Arick  has  gone  back  to  the  German  firm. 
He  had  not  been  working  very  well,  and  we  had  talked  of  sending 
him  off  before;  but  remembering  how  thin  he  was  when  he  came 
here,  and  seeing  what  fat  little  legs  and  what  a  comfortable  little  stom- 
ach he  had  laid  on  in  the  meanwhile,  we  found  we  had  not  the  heart. 
The  other  day,  however,  he  set  up  chat  to  Henry,  the  Samoan  over- 
seer, asking  him  who  he  was  and  where  he  came  from,  and  refusing 
to  obey  his  orders.  I  was  in  bed  in  the  workmen's  house,  having  a 
fever.  Uncle  Lloyd  came  over  to  me,  told  me  of  it,  and  I  had  Arick 
sent  up.  I  told  him  I  would  give  him  another  chance.  He  was  taken 
out  and  asked  to  apologise  to  Henry,  but  he  would  do  no  such  thing. 
He  preferred  to  go  back  to  the  German  firm.     So  we  hired  a  couple 

512 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 

of  Samoans  who  were  up  here  on  a  visit  to  the  boys,  and  packed  him 
off  in  their  charge  to  the  firm,  where  he  arrived  safely,  and  a  receipt 
was  given  for  him  like  a  parcel,* 

Sunday  last  the  Alameda  returned.  Your  mother  was  off  bright 
and  early  with  Palema,  for  it  is  a  very  curious  thing,  but  is  certainly 
the  case,  that  she  was  very  impatient  to  get  news  of  a  young  person 
by  the  name  of  Austin.  Mr.  Gurr  lent  a  horse  for  the  Captain  —  it  was 
a  pretty  big  horse,  but  our  handsome  Captain,  as  you  know,  is  a  very 
big  Captain  indeed.  Now,  do  you  remember  Misifolo  —  a  tall,  thin 
Hovea  boy  that  came  shortly  before  you  left  ?  He  had  been  riding  up 
this  same  horse  of  Gurr's  just  the  day  before,  and  the  horse  threw  him 
off  at  Motootua  corner,  and  cut  his  hip.  So  Misifolo  called  out  to  the 
Captain  as  he  rode  by  that  that  was  a  very  bad  horse,  that  it  ran  away 
and  threw  people  off,  and  that  he  had  best  be  caretul ;  and  the  funny 
thing  is,  that  the  Captain  did  not  like  it  at  all.  The  foal  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  run  away  with  Vailima  as  that  horse  with  Captain 
Morse,  which  is  poetry,  as  you  see,  into  the  bargain;  but  the  Captain 
was  not  at  all  in  that  way  of  thinking,  and  was  never  really  happy 
until  he  had  got  his  foot  on  ground  again.  It  was  just  then  that  the 
horse  began  to  be  happy  too,  so  they  parted  in  one  mind.  But  the 
horse  is  still  wondering  what  kind  of  piece  of  artillery  he  had  bfought 
up  to  Vailima  last  Sunday  morning.  So  far  it  was  all  right.  The 
Captain  was  got  safe  off  the  wicked  horse,  but  how  was  he  to  get 
back  again  to  Apia  and  the  Alameda  ? 

Happy  thought  — there  was  Donald,  the  big  pack-horse!  The  last 
time  Donald  was  ridden  he  had  upon  him  a  hair-pin  and  a  pea  —  by 
which  1  mean  (once  again  to  drop  into  poetry)  you  and  me.  Now  he 
was  to  have  a  rider  more  suited  to  his  size.     He  was  brought  up  to  the 

1  When  Arick  left  us  and  went  back  to  the  German  company,  he  had 
grown  so  fat  and  strong  and  intelligent  that  they  deemed  he  was  made  for 
better  things  than  cotton-picking  or  plantation  work,  and  handed  him  over 
to  their  surveyor,  who  needed  a  man  to  help  him.  I  used  often  to  meet 
him  after  this,  tripping  at  his  master's  heels  with  the  theodolite,  or  scam- 
pering about  with  tapes  and  chains  like  a  kitten  with  a  spool  of  thread.  He 
did  not  look  then  as  though  he  were  destined  to  die  of  a  broken  heart, 
though  that  was  his  end  not  so  many  months  afterwards.  The  plantation 
manager  told  me  that  Arick  and  a  New  Ireland  boy  went  crazy  with  home- 
sickness, and  died  in  the  hospital  together. —  [L.  O]. 

5»3 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

door — he  looked  a  mountain.  A  step-ladder  was  put  alongside  of 
him.  The  Captain  approached  the  step-ladder,  and  he  looked  an  Alp. 
I  was  n't  as  much  afraid  for  the  horse  as  I  was  for  the  step-ladder,  but 
it  bore  the  strain,  and  with  a  kind  of  sickening  smash  that  you  might 
have  heard  at  Monterey,  the  Captain  descewded  to  the  saddle.  Now 
don't  think  that  I  am  exaggerating,  but  at  the  moment  when  that  enor- 
mous Captain  settled  down  upon  Donald,  the  horse's  hind  legs  gave 
visibly  under  the  strain.  What  the  couple  looked  like,  one  on  top  of 
t'  other,  no  words  can  tell  you,  and  your  mother  must  here  draw  a  pic- 
ture.— Your  respected  Uncle,  O  Tusitala. 


TO  AUSTIN  STROKO 

yailima,  November  i^,  t8p2. 

My  dear  Austin, — The  new  house  is  begun.  It  stands  out  nearly 
half-way  over  towards  Pineapple  Cottage— the  lower  floor  is  laid  and 
the  uprights  of  the  wall  are  set  up;  so  that  the  big  lower  room  wants 
nothing  but  a  roof  over  its  head.  When  it  rains  (as  it  does  mostly  all 
the  time)  you  never  saw  anything  look  so  soixy  for  itself  as  that  room 
left  outside.  Beyond  the  house  there  is  a  work-shed  roofed  with  sheets 
of  iron,  and  in  front,  over  about  half  the  lawn,  the  lumber  for  the 
house  lies  piled.  It  is  about  the  bringing  up  of  this  lumber  that  I  want 
to  tell  you. 

For  about  a  fortnight  there  were  at  work  upon  the  job  two  German 
overseers,  about  a  hundred  Black  Boys,  and  from  twelve  to  twenty- 
four  draught-oxen.  It  rained  about  half  the  time,  and  the  road  was 
like  lather  for  shaving.  The  Black  Boys  seemed  to  have  had  a  new 
rig-out.  They  had  almost  all  shirts  of  scarlet  flannel,  and  lavalavas, 
the  Samoan  kilt,  either  of  scarlet  or  light  blue.  As  the  day  got  warm 
they  took  off  the  shirts;  and  it  was  a  very  curious  thing,  as  you  went 
down  to  Apia  on  a  bright  day,  to  come  upon  one  tree  after  another  in 
the  empty  forest  with  these  shirts  stuck  among  the  branches  like  ver- 
milion birds. 

I  observed  that  many  of  the  boys  had  a  very  queer  substitute  for  a 
pocket.  This  was  nothing  more  than  a  string  which  some  of  them  tied 
about  their  upper  arms  and  some  about  their  necks,  and  in  which  they 
stuck  their  clay  pipes;  and  as  I  don't  suppose  they  had  anything  else 
to  carry,  it  did  very  well.     Some  had  feathers  in  their  hair,  and  some 

5M 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 

long  stalks  of  grass  through  the  holes  in  their  noses.  1  suppose  this 
was  intended  to  make  them  look  pretty,  poor  dears;  but  you  know 
what  a  Black  Boy  looks  like,  and  these  Black  Boys,  for  all  their  blue, 
and  their  scarlet,  and  their  grass,  looked  just  as  shabby  and  small,  and 
sad,  and  sorry  for  themselves,  and  like  sick  monkeys  as  any  of  the  rest. 

As  you  went  down  the  road  you  came  upon  them  first  working  in 
squads  of  two.  Each  squad  shouldered  a  couple  of  planks  and  carried 
them  up  about  two  hundred  feet,  gave  them  to  two  others,  and  walked 
back  empty-handed  to  the  places  they  had  started  from.  It  was  n't 
very  hard  work,  and  they  did  n't  go  about  it  at  all  lively;  but,  of  course, 
when  it  rained,  and  the  mud  was  deep,  the  poor  fellows  were  unhappy 
enough.  This  was  in  the  upper  part  about  Trood's.  Below,  all  the 
way  down  to  Tanugamanono,  you  met  the  bullock-carts  coming  and 
going,  each  with  ten  or  twenty  men  to  attend  upon  it,  and  often  enough 
with  one  of  the  overseers  near.  Quite  a  far  way  off  through  the  for- 
est you  could  hear  the  noise  of  one  of  these  carts  approaching.  The 
road  was  like  a  bog,  and  though  a  good  deal  wider  than  it  was  when 
you  knew  it,  so  narrow  that  the  bullocks  reached  quite  across  it  with 
the  span  of  their  big  horns.  To  pass  by,  it  was  necessary  to  get  into 
the  Bush  on  one  side  or  the  other.  The  bullocks  seemed  to  take  no 
interest  in  their  business;  they  looked  angry  and  stupid,  and  sullen 
beyond  belief;  and  when  it  came  to  a  heavy  bit  of  road,  as  often  as 
not  they  would  stop. 

As  long  as  they  were  going  the  Black  Boys  walked  in  the  margin 
of  the  Bush  on  each  side,  pushing  the  cart-wheels  with  hands  and 
shoulders,  and  raising  the  most  extraordinary  outcry.  It  was  strangely 
like  some  very  big  kind  of  bird.  Perhaps  the  great  flying  creatures 
that  lived  upon  the  earth  long  before  man  came,  if  we  could  have 
come  near  one  of  their  meeting-places,  would  have  given  us  just  such 
a  concert. 

When  one  of  the  bullamacows  1  stopped  altogether  the  fun  was 

1  "BuUamacow"  is  a  word  that  always  amuses  the  visitor  to  Samoa. 
When  the  first  pair  of  cattle  was  brought  to  the  islands,  and  the  natives 
asked  the  missionaries  what  they  must  call  these  strange  creatures,  they 
were  told  that  the  English  name  was  "  a  bull  and  a  cow."  But  the 
Samoans  thought  that  "  a  bull  and  a  cow"  was  the  name  of  each  of  the 
animals,  and  they  soon  corrupted  the  English  words  into  "  bullamacow," 
which  has  remained  the  name  for  beef  or  cattle  ever  since. — [L.  O.] 

515 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

highest.  The  buUamacow  stood  on  the  road,  his  head  fixed  fast  in 
the  yoke,  chewing  a  little,  breathing  very  hard,  and  showing  in  his 
red  eye  that  if  he  could  get  rid  of  the  yoke  he  would  show  them  what 
a  circus  was.  All  the  Black  Boys  tailed  on  to  the  wheels  and  the  back 
of  the  cart  stood  there  getting  their  spirits  up,  and  then  of  a  sudden 
set  to  shooing  and  singing  out.  It  was  these  outbursts  of  shrill  cries 
that  it  was  so  curious  to  hear  in  the  distance.  One  such  stuck  cart  1 
came  up  to  and  asked  what  was  the  worry.  **  Old  fool  bullamacow 
stop  same  place,"  was  the  reply.  I  never  saw  any  of  the  overseers 
near  any  of  the  stuck  carts;  you  were  a  very  much  better  overseer  than 
either  of  these. 

While  this  was  going  on,  I  had  to  go  down  to  Apia  five  or  six  dif- 
ferent times,  and  each  time  there  were  a  hundred  Black  Boys  to  say 
"Good-morning"  to.  This  was  rather  a  tedious  business;  and,  as 
very  few  of  them  answered  at  all,  and  those  who  did,  only  with  a 
grunt  like  a  pig's,  it  was  several  times  in  my  mind  to  give  up  this  piece 
of  politeness.  The  last  time  I  went  down,  I  was  almost  decided ;  but 
when  I  came  to  the  first  pair  of  Black  Boys,  and  saw  them  looking  so 
comic  and  so  melancholy,  I  began  the  business  over  again.  This 
time  I  thought  more  of  them  seemed  to  answer,  and  when  I  got  down 
to  the  tail-end  where  the  carts  were  running,  I  received  a  very  pleasant 
surprise,  for  one  of  the  boys,  who  was  pushing  at  the  back  of  a  cart^ 
lifted  up  his  head,  and  called  out  to  me  in  wonderfully  good  English, 
"You  good  man  —  always  say  'Good-morning.'"  It  was  sad  to- 
think  that  these  poor  creatures  should  think  so  much  of  so  small  a 
piece  of  civility,  and  strange  that  (thinking  so)  they  should  be  so  dull 
as  not  to  return  it.  Uncle  Louis. 

VI 

TO   AUSTIN   STRONG 

June  i8,  i8pj. 
Respected  Hopkins,! — This  is  to  inform  you  that  the  Jersey  cow 
had  an  elegant  little  cow-calf  Sunday  last.     There  was  a  great  deal  of 
rejoicing,  of  course;  but  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  you  remember 

1  In  the  letters  that  were  sent  to  Austin  Strong  you  will  be  surprised  to 
see  his  name  change  from  Austin  to  Hoskyns,  and  from  Hopkins  to 
Hutchinson.  It  was  the  penalty  Master  Austin  had  to  pay  for  being  the 
particular  and  bosom  friend  of  each  of  the  one  hundred  and  eighty  blue- 

516 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG   PEOPLE 

the  Jersey  cow.  Whatever  else  she  is,  the  Jersey  cow  is  not  good- 
natured,  and  Dines,  who  was  up  here  on  some  other  business,  went 
down  to  the  paddock  to  get  a  hood  and  to  milk  her.  The  hood  is  a  little 
wooden  board  with  two  holes  in  it,  by  which  it  is  hung  from  her 
horns.  1  do  not  know  how  he  got  it  on,  and  I  don't  believe  be  does. 
Anyway,  in  the  middle  of  the  operation,  in  came  Bull  Bazett,  with  his 
head  down,  and  roaring  like  the  last  trumpet.  Dines  and  all  his  merry 
men  hid  behind  trees  in  the  paddock  and  skipped.  Dines  then  got 
upon  a  horse,  plied  his  spurs,  and  cleared  for  Apia.  The  next  time  he 
is  asked  to  meddle  with  our  cows,  he  will  probably  want  to  know  the 
reason  why.  Meanwhile,  there  was  the  cow,  with  the  board  over  her 
€yes,  left  tied  by  a  pretty  long  rope  to  a  small  tree  in  the  paddock, 
and  who  was  to  milk  her  ?  She  roared, —  I  was  going  to  say  like  a 
bull,  but  it  was  Bazett  who  did  that,  walking  up  and  down,  switching 
his  tail,  and  the  noise  of  the  pair  of  them  was  perfectly  dreadful. 

Palema  went  up  to  the  Bush  to  call  Lloyd;  and  Lloyd  came  down 
i  i  one  of  his  know-all-about-it  moods.  "  It  was  perfectly  simple,"  he 
said.  "  The  cow  was  hooded;  anybody  could  milk  her.  All  you  had 
to  do  was  to  draw  her  up  to  the  tree,  and  get  a  hitch  about  it."  So 
he  untied  the  cow,  and  drew  her  up  close  to  the  tree,  and  got  a  hitch 
about  it  right  enough.  And  then  the  cow  brought  her  intellect  to  bear 
on  the  subject,  and  proceeded  to  walk  roand  the  tree  to  get  the  hitch  off. 

Now,  this  is  geometry,  which  you  '11  have  to  learn  some  day.  The 
tree  is  the  centre  of  two  circles.  The  cow  had  a  ''radius"  of  about 
two  feet,  and  went  leisurely  round  a  small  circle;  the  man  had  a 
"  radius  "  of  about  thirty  feet,  and  either  he  must  let  the  cow  get  the 
hitch  unwound,  or  else  he  must  take  up  his  two  feet  to  about  the 
height  of  his  eyes  and  race  round  a  big  circle.  This  was  racing  and 
chasing. 

The  cow  walked  quietly  round  and  round  the  tree  to  unwind  her- 
self; and  first  Lloyd,  and  then  Palema,  and  then  Lloyd  again,  scam- 
pered round  the  big  circle,  and  fell,  and  got  up  again,  and  bounded  like 
a  deer,  to  keep  her  hitched. 

jackets  that  made  up  the  crew  of  the  British  man-of-war  Curagoa;  for, 
whether  it  was  due  to  some  bitter  memories  of  the  Revolutionary  war,  or 
to  some  rankling  reminiscences  of  1812,  that  even  friendship  could  not  al- 
together stifle  (for  Austin  was  a  true  American  boy),  they  annoyed  him  by 
giving  him,  each  one  of  them,  a  separate  name. — [L.  O.J 

5«7 


LETTERS  FROM  SAMOA 

It  was  funny  to  see,  but  we  could  n't  laugh  with  a  good  heart;  for 
every  now  and  then  (when  the  man  who  was  running  tumbled  down) 
the  cow  would  get  a  bit  ahead;  and  I  promise  you  there  was  then  no 
sound  of  any  laughter,  but  we  rather  edged  away  towards  the  gate, 


/Vi»^**» 


'  "  9 


/#•• 


%wmmmm 


looking  to  see  the  crazy  beast  loose,  and  charging  us.  To  add  to  hei 
attractions,  the  board  had  fallen  partly  off,  and  only  covered  one  eye, 
giving  her  the  look  of  a  crazy  old  woman  in  a  Sydney  slum.  Mean- 
while, the  calf  stood  looking  on,  a  little  perplexed,  and  seemed  to  be 
saying:  **  Well,  now,  is  this  life?  It  does  n't  seem  as  if  it  was  all  it 
was  cracked  up  to  be.  And  is  this  my  mamma  ?  What  a  very  im- 
pulsive lady! " 

All  the  time,  from  the  lower  paddock,  we  could  hear  Bazett  roaring 
like  the  deep  seas,  and  if  we  cast  our  eye  that  way,  we  could  see  him 
switching  his  tail,  as  a  very  angry  gentleman  may  sometimes  switch 
his  cane.  And  the  Jersey  would  every  now  and  then  put  up  her  head, 
and  low  like  the  pu  i  for  dinner.  And  take  it  for  all  in  all,  it  was  a 
very  striking  scene.  Poor  Uncle  Lloyd  had  plenty  of  time  to  regret 
having  been  in  such  a  hurry;  so  had  poor  Palema,  who  was  let  into 
the  business,  and  ran  until  he  was  nearly  dead.     Afterwards  Palema 

1  The  big  conch-shell  that  was  blown  at  certain  hours  every  day.— > 
[L.  O.] 

518 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG  PEOPLE 

went  and  sat  on  a  gate  where  your  mother  sketched  him,  and  she  is  go- 
ing to  send  you  the  sketch.  And  the  end  of  it  ?  Well,  we  got  her  tied 
again,  1  really  don't  know  how;  and  came  stringing  back  to  the  house 
with  our  tails  between  our  legs.  That  night  at  dinner,  the  Tamaitai  I 
bid  us  tell  the  boys  to  be  very  careful  "  not  to  frighten  the  cow."  It 
was  too  much;  the  cow  had  frightened  us  in  such  fine  style  that  we 
all  broke  down  and  laughed  like  mad. 

General  Hoskyns,  there  is  no  further  news,  your  Excellency,  that  I 
am  aware  of.  But  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  Mr.  Christian 
held  his  twenty-fifth  birthday  yesterday  —  a  quarter  of  a  living  century 
old;  think  of  it,  drink  of  it,  innocent  youth!  —  and  asked  down  Lloyd 
and  Daplyn  to  a  feast  at  one  o'clock,  and  Daplyn  went  at  seven,  and 
got  nothing  to  eat  at  all.  Whether  they  had  anything  to  drink,  1 
know  not — no,  not  I;  but  it 's  to  be  hoped  so.  Also,  your  Uncle 
Lloyd  has  stopped  smoking,  and  he  does  n't  like  it  much.  Also,  that 
your  mother  is  most  beautifully  gotten  up  to-day,  in  a  pink  gown  with 
a  topaz  stone  in  front  of  it;  and  is  really  looking  like  an  angel,  only 
that  she  is  n't  like  an  angel  at  all  —  only  like  your  mother  herself. 

Also  that  the  Tamaitai  has  been  waxing  the  floor  of  the  big  room, 
so  that  it  shines  in  the  most  ravishing  manner;  and  then  we  insisted 
on  coming  in,  and  she  would  n't  let  us,  and  we  came  anyway,  and 
have  made  the  vilest  mess  of  it  — but  still  it  shines. 

Also,  that  I  am,  your  Excellency's  obedient  servant, 

Uncle  Louis. 

VII 

TO  AUSTIN  STRONG 

My  dear  Hutchinson,— This  is  not  going  to  be  much  of  a  letter,  so 
don't  expect  what  can't  be  had.  Uncle  Lloyd  and  Palema  made  a 
malanga2  to  go  over  the  island  to  Siumu,  and  Talolo  was  anxious  to 
go  also;  but  how  could  we  get  along  without  him?  Well,  Misifolo, 
the  Maypole,  set  off  on  Saturday,  and  walked  all  that  day  down  the 
island  to  beyond  Faleasiu  with  a  letter  for  lopu;  and  lopu  and  Tali 
and  Misifolo  rose  very  eariy  on  the  Sunday  morning,  and  walked  all 
that  day  up  the  island,  and  came  by  seven  at  night — all  pretty  tired, 

1  Mrs.  R.  L.  S.,  as  she  is  called  in  Samoan,  "  the  Lady."— [L.  O.J 

2  A  visiting  party. 

5>9 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

and  Misifolo  most  of  all  —  to  Tanugamanono.^  We  at  Vailima  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  the  marchings  of  the  Saturday  and  Sunday,  but 
Uncle  Lloyd  got  his  boys  and  things  together  and  went  to  bed. 

A  little  after  five  in  the  morning  I  woke  and  took  the  lantern,  and 
went  out  of  the  front  door  and  round  the  verandahs.  There  was  never 
a  spark  of  dawn  in  the  east,  only  the  stars  looked  a  little  pale ;  and  1 
expected  to  find  them  all  asleep  in  the  workhouse.  But  no !  the  stove 
was  roaring,  and  Talolo  and  Fono,  who  was  to  lead  the  party,  were 
standing  together  talking  by  the  stove,  and  one  of  Fono's  young  men 
was  lying  asleep  on  the  sofa  in  the  smoking-room,  wrapped  in  his  lava- 
lava.  I  had  my  breakfast  at  half-past  five  that  morning,  and  the  bell 
rang  before  six,  when  it  was  just  the  grey  of  dawn.  But  by  seven  the 
feast  was  spread  —  there  was  lopu  coming  up,  with  Tali  at  his  heels, 
and  Misifolo  bringing  up  the  rear —  and  Talolo  could  go  the  malanga. 

Off  they  set  with  two  guns  and  three  porters,  and  Fono  and  Lloyd 
and  Palema,  and  Talolo  himself  with  his  best  Sunday-go-to-meeting 
lavalava  rolled  up  under  his  arm,  and  a  very  sore  foot;  but  much  he 
cared  —  he  was  smiling  from  ear  to  ear,  and  would  have  gone  to  Siumu 
over  red-hot  coals.  Off  they  set  round  the  corner  of  the  cook-house, 
and  into  the  Bush  beside  the  chicken-house,  and  so  good-bye  to  them. 

But  you  should  see  how  lopu  has  taken  possession!  **  Never  saw  a 
place  in  such  a  state!  "  is  written  on  his  face.  '*  In  my  time,"  says  he, 
"we  did  n't  let  things  go  ragging  along  like  this,  and  I  'm  going  to 
show  you  fellows."  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  apply  for  a  bar  of 
soap,  and  then  he  set  to  work  washing  everything  (that  had  all  been 
washed  last  Friday  in  the  regular  course).  Then  he  had  the  grass  cut 
all  round  the  cook-house,  and  I  tell  you  but  he  found  scraps,  and  odds 
and  ends,  and  grew  more  angry  and  indignant  at  each  fresh  discovery. 

1  Talolo  was  the  Vailima  cook ;  Sina,  his  wife ;  Tauilo,  his  mother ;  Mi- 
taele  and  Sosimo,  his  brothers.  Lafaele,  who  was  married  to  Faauma,  was 
a  middle-aged  Futuna  Islander,  and  had  spent  many  years  of  his  life  on  a 
whale-ship,  the  captain  of  which  had  kidnapped  him  when  a  boy.  Misi- 
folo was  one  of  the  "  housemaids."  lopu  and  Tali,  man  and  wife,  had  long 
been  in  our  service,  but  had  left  it  after  they  had  been  married  some  time  ; 
but,  according  to  Samoan  ideas,  they  were  none  the  less  members  of  Tusi- 
tala's  family,  because,  though  they  were  no  longer  working  for  him,  they 
still  owed  him  allegiance.  "Aunt  Maggie"  is  Mr.  Stevenson's  mother; 
Palema,  Mr.  Graham  Balfour.— [L.  C] 

520 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG  PEOPLE 

"  If  a  white  chief  came  up  here  and  smelt  this,  how  would  you 
feel  ?"  he  asked  your  mother.     "  It  is  enough  to  breed  a  sickness! " 

And  1  dare  say  you  remember  this  was  just  what  your  mother  had 
often  said  to  himself;  and  did  say  the  day  she  went  out  and  cried  on 
the  kitchen  steps  in  order  to  make  Talolo  ashamed.  But  lopu  gave  it 
all  out  as  little  new  discoveries  of  his  own.  The  last  thing  was  the 
cows,  and  I  tell  you  he  was  solemn  about  the  cows.  They  were  all 
destroyed,  he  said,  nobody  knew  how  to  milk  except  himself —  where 
he  is  about  right.  Then  came  dinner  and  a  delightful  little  surprise. 
Perhaps  you  remember  that  long  ago  I  used  not  to  eat  mashed  potatoes, 
but  always  had  two  or  three  boiled  in  a  plate.  This  has  not  been  done 
for  months,  because  Talolo  makes  such  admirable  mashed  potatoes 
that  I  have  caved  in.  But  here  came  dinner,  mashed  potatoes  for  your 
mother  and  the  Tamaitai,  and  then  boiled  potatoes  in  a  plate  for  me! 

And  there  is  the  end  of  the  Tale  of  the  return  of  lopu,  up  to  date. 
What  more  there  may  be  is  in  the  lap  of  the  gods,  and.  Sir,  I  am  yours 
considerably,  Uncle  Louis. 

vni 

TO  AUSTIN  STRONG 

My  dear  Hoskyns,— I  am  kept  away  in  a  cupboard  because  everybody 
has  the  influenza ;  1  never  see  anybody  at  all,  and  never  do  anything  what- 
ever except  to  put  ink  on  paper  up  here  in  my  room.  So  what  can  I  find 
to  write  to  you  ?— you,  who  are  going  to  school,  and  getting  up  in  the 
morning  to  go  bathing,  and  having  (it  seems  to  me)  rather  a  fine  time  of 
it  in  general  ? 

You  ask  if  we  have  seen  Arick  ?  Yes,  your  mother  saw  him  at  the 
head  of  a  gang  of  boys,  and  looking  fat,  and  sleek,  and  well-to-do.  I 
have  an  idea  that  he  misbehaved  here  because  he  was  homesick  for  the 
other  Black  Boys,  and  did  n't  know  how  else  to  get  back  to  them.  Well, 
he  has  got  them  now,  and  1  hope  he  likes  it  better  than  1  should. 

I  read  the  other  day  something  that  I  thought  would  interest  so  great 
a  sea-bather  as  yourself.  You  know  that  the  fishes  that  we  see,  and 
catch,  go  only  a  certain  way  down  into  the  sea.  Below  a  certain  depth 
there  is  no  life  at  all.  The  water  is  as  empty  as  the  air  is  above  a  certain 
height.  Even  the  shells  of  dead  fishes  that  come  down  there  are  crushed 
into  nothing  by  the  huge  weight  of  the  water.     Lower  still,  in  the  places 

5»t 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

where  the  sea  is  profoundly  deep,  it  appears  that  life  begins  agsfm.  People 
fish  up  in  dredging-buckets  loose  rags  and  tatters  of  creatures  that  hang 
together  all  right  down  there  with  the  great  weight  holding  them  in  one, 
but  come  all  to  pieces  as  they  are  hauled  up.  Just  what  they  look  like, 
just  what  they  do  or  feed  upon,  we  shall  never  find  out.  Only  that  we 
have  some  flimsy  fellow-creatures  down  in  the  very  bottom  of  the  deep 
seas,  and  cannot  get  them  up  except  in  tatters.  It  must  be  pretty  dark 
where  they  live,  and  there  are  no  plants  or  weeds,  and  no  fish  come  down 
there,  or  drowned  sailors  either,  from  the  upper  parts,  because  these  are 
all  mashed  to  pieces  by  the  great  weight  long  before  they  get  so  far,  or . 
else  come  to  a  place  where  perhaps  they  float.  But  I  dare  say  a  cannon 
sometimes  comes  careering  solemnly  down,  and  circling  about  like  a  dead 
leaf  or  thistledown ;  and  then  the  ragged  fellows  go  and  play  about  the 
cannon  and  tell  themselves  all  kinds  of  stories  about  the  fish  higher  up 
and  their  iron  houses,  and  perhaps  go  inside  and  sleep,  and  perhaps  dream 
of  it  all  like  their  betters. 

Of  course  you  know  a  cannon  down  there  would  be  quite  light.  Even 
in  shallow  water,  where  men  go  down  with  a  diving-dress,  they  grow  so 
light  that  they  have  to  hang  weights  about  their  necks,  and  have  their 
boots  loaded  with  twenty  pounds  of  lead— as  1  know  to  my  sorrow. 
And  with  all  this,  and  the  helmet,  which  is  heavy  enough  of  itself  to  any 
one  up  here  in  the  thin  air,  they  are  carried  about  like  gossamers,  and 
have  to  take  every  kind  of  care  not  to  be  upset  and  stood  upon  their 
heads.  1  went  down  once  in  the  dress,  and  speak  from  experience.  But 
if  we  could  get  down  for  a  moment  near  where  the  fishes  are,  we  should 
be  in  a  tight  place.  Suppose  the  water  not  to  crush  us  (which  it  would), 
we  should  pitch  about  in  every  kind  of  direction ;  every  step  we  took 
would  carry  us  as  far  as  if  we  had  seven-league  boots ;  and  we  should 
keep  flying  head  over  heels,  and  top  over  bottom,  like  the  liveliest  clowns 
in  the  world. 

Well,  Sir,  here  is  a  great  deal  of  words  put  down  upon  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  if  you  think  that  makes  a  letter,  why,  very  well !  And  if  you 
don't,  I  can't  help  it.     For  I  have  nothing  under  heaven  to  tell  you. 

So,  with  kindest  wishes  to  yourself,  and  Louie,  and  Aunt  Nellie,  be- 
lieve me,  your  affectionate  Uncle  Louis. 

Now  here  is  something  worth  telling  you.  This  morning  at  six  o'clock 
I  saw  all  the  horses  together  in  the  front  paddock,  and  in  a  terrible  ado 

522 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 

about  something.  Presently  I  saw  a  man  with  two  buckets  on  the  march, 
and  knew  where  the  trouble  was— the  cow !  The  whole  lot  cleared  to  the 
gate  but  two— Donald,  the 
big  white  horse,  and  my 
Jack.  They  stood  solitary, 
one  here,  one  there.  I  be- 
gan to  get  interested,  for  I 
thought  Jack  was  off  his 
feed.  In  came  the  man  with 
the  bucket  and  all  the  ruck  ^      ^  »        •      / 

of  curious  horses  at  his  tail. 

Right  round  he  went  to  where  Donald  stood  (D)  and  poured  out  a  feed, 
and  the  majestic  Donald  ate  it,  and  the  ruck  of  common  horses  followed 
the  man.  On  he  went  to  the  second  station,  Jack's  (/  in  the  plan),  and 
poured  out  a  feed,  and  the  fools  of  horses  went  in  with  him  to  the  next 
place  {y4  in  the  plan).  And  behold  as  the  train  swung  round,  the  last  of 
them  came  curiously  too  near  Jack;  and  Jack  left  his  feed  and  rushed 
upon  this  fool  with  a  kind  of  outcry,  and  the  fool  fled,  and  Jack  returned 
to  his  feed ;  and  he  and  Donald  ate  theirs  with  glory,  while  the  others 
were  still  circling  round  for  fresh  feeds. 

Glory  be  to  the  name  of  Donald  and  to  the  name  of  Jack,  for  they 
had  found  out  where  the  foods  were  poured,  and  each  took  his  station 
and  waited  there,  Donald  at  the  first  of  the  course  for  his,  Jack  at  the 
second  station,  while  all  the  impotent  fools  ran  round  and  round  after 
the  man  with  his  buckets!  R.  L.  S. 

IX 

TO  AUSTIN  STRONG 

yailima. 

My  dear  Austin,— Now  when  the  overseer  is  away  1 1  think  it  my  duty 
to  report  to  him  anything  serious  that  goes  on  on  the  plantation. 

Early  the  other  afternoon  we  heard  that  Sina's  foot  was  very  bad, 
and  soon  after  that  we  could  have  heard  her  cries  as  far  away  as  the  front 
balcony.     I  think  Sina  rather  enjoys  being  ill,  and  makes  as  much  of  it 

1  While  Austin  was  in  Vailima  many  little  duties  about  the  plantation  fell 
to  his  share,  so  that  he  was  often  called  the  "  overseer";  and,  small  as  he 
was,  he  sometimes  took  charge  of  a  couple  of  big  men,  and  went  into  town 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 

as  she  possibly  can ;  but  all  the  same  it  was  painful  to  hear  the  cries ;  and 
there  is  no  doubt  she  was  at  least  very  uncomfortable.  I  went  up  twice 
to  the  little  room  behind  the  stable,  and  found  her  lying  on  the  floor, 
with  Tali  and  Faauma  and  Talolo  all  holding  on  different  bits  of  her.  I 
gave  her  an  opiate ;  but  whenever  she  was  about  to  go  to  sleep  one  of 
these  silly  people  would  be  shaking  her,  or  talking  in  her  ear,  and  then 
she  would  begin  to  kick  about  again  and  scream. 

Palema  and  Aunt  Maggie  took  horse  and  went  down  to  Apia  after  the 
doctor.  Right  on  their  heels  off  went  Mitaele  on  Musu  to  fetch  Tauilo, 
Talolo's  mother.  So  here  was  all  the  island  in  a  bustle  over  Sina's  foot. 
No  doctor  came,  but  he  told  us  what  to  put  on.  When  I  went  up  at 
night  to  the  little  room,  I  found  Tauilo  there,  and  the  whole  plantation 
boxed  into  the  place  like  little  birds  in  a  nest.  They  were  sitting  on  the 
bed,  they  were  sitting  on  the  table,  the  floor  was  full  of  them,  and  the 
place  as  close  as  the  engine-room  of  a  steamer.  In  the  middle  lay  Sina, 
about  three  parts  asleep  with  opium ;  two  able-bodied  work-boys  were 
pulling  at  her  arms,  and  whenever  she  closed  her  eyes  calling  her  by 
name,  and  talking  in  her  ear. 

I  really  did  n't  know  what  would  become  of  the  girl  before  morning. 
Whether  or  not  she  had  been  very  ill  before,  this  was  the  way  to  make 
her  so,  and  when  one  of  the  work-boys  woke  her  up  again,  I  spoke  to 
him  very  sharply,  and  told  Tauilo  she  must  put  a  stop  to  it. 

Now  I  suppose  this  was  what  put  it  into  Tauilo's  head  to  do  what  she 
did  next.  You  remember  Tauilo,  and  what  a  fine,  tall,  strong  Madame 
Lafarge  sort  of  person  she  is  ?  And  you  know  how  much  afraid  the  na- 
tives are  of  the  evil  spirits  in  the  wood,  and  how  they  think  all  sickness 
comes  from  them  ?  Up  stood  Tauilo,  and  addressed  the  spirit  in  Sina's 
foot,  and  scolded  it,  and  the  spirit  answered  and  promised  to  be  a  good 
boy  and  go  away.  I  do  not  feel  so  much  afraid  of  the  demons  after  this. 
It  was  Faauma  told  me  about  it.  I  was  going  out  into  the  pantry  after 
soda-water,  and  found  her  with  a  lantern  drawing  water  from  the  tank. 
"  Bad  spirit  he  go  away,"  she  told  me. 

"That 's  first-rate,"  said  I.  "Do  you  know  what  the  name  of  that 
spirit  was?    His  name  was  tautala  [talking]." 

"O,  no!  "  she  said;  "his  name  is  Tu." 

with  the  pack-horses.  It  was  not  all  play,  either;  for  he  had  to  see  that  the 
barrels  and  boxes  did  not  chafe  the  horses'  backs,  and  that  they  were  not 
allowed  to  come  home  too  fast  up  the  steep  road. —  [L.  O.] 

524 


LETTERS  TO  YOUNG   PEOPLE 

You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  straw.  "  How  on  earth  do 
you  know  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Hear  him  tell  Tauilo,"  she  said. 

As  soon  as  I  heard  that,  I  began  to  suspect  Mrs.  Tauilo  was  a  little  bit 
of  a  ventriloquist ;  and  imitating  as  well  as  I  could  the  sort  of  voice  they 
make,  asked  her  if  the  bad  spirit  did  not  talk  like  that.  Faauma  was 
very  much  surprised,  and  told  me  that  was  just  his  voice. 

Well,  that  was  a  very  good  business  for  the  evening.  The  people  all 
went  away  because  the  demon  was  gone  away,  and  the  circus  was  over, 
and  Sina  was  allowed  to  sleep.  But  the  trouble  came  after.  There  had 
been  an  evil  spirit  in  that  room  and  his  name  was  Tu.  No  one  could  say 
when  he  might  come  back  again;  they  all  voted  it  was  Tu  much;  and 
now  Talolo  and  Sina  have  had  to  be  lodged  in  the  Soldier  Room.*  As 
for  the  little  room  by  the  stable,  there  it  stands  empty ;  it  is  too  small  to 
play  soldiers  in,  and  I  do  not  see  what  we  can  do  with  it,  except  to  have 
a  nice  brass  name-plate  engraved  in  Sydney,  or  in  "Frisco,"  and  stuck 
upon  the  door  of  \i—Mr.  Tu. 

So  you  see  that  ventriloquism  has  its  bad  side  as  well  as  its  good  sides ; 
and  I  don't  know  that  I  want  any  more  ventriloquists  on  this  plantation. 
We  shall  have  Tu  in  the  cook-house  next,  and  then  Tu  in  Lafaele's,  and 
Tu  in  the  workman's  cottage ;  and  the  end  of  it  all  will  be  that  we  shall 
have  to  take  the  Tamaitai's  room  for  the  kitchen,  and  my  room  for  the 
boys'  sleeping-house,  and  we  shall  all  have  to  go  out  and  camp  under 
umbrellas. 

Well,  where  you  are  there  may  be  schoolmasters,  but  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  Mr.  Tu! 

Now,  it 's  all  very  well  that  these  big  people  should  be  frightened  out 
of  their  wits  by  an  old  wife  talking  with  her  mouth  shut ;  that  is  one  of 
the  things  we  happen  to  know  about.  All  the  old  women  in  the  world 
might  talk  with  their  mouths  shut,  and  not  frighten  you  or  me,  but  there 
are  plenty  of  other  things  that  frighten  us  badly.  And  if  we  only  knew 
about  them,  perhaps  we  should  find  them  no  more  worthy  to  be  feared 
than  an  old  woman  talking  with  her  mouth  shut.  And  the  names  of 
some  of  these  things  are  Death,  and  Pain,  and  Sorrow. 

Uncle  Louis. 

1 A  room  set  apart  to  serve  as  the  theatre  for  an  elaborate  war-game, 
which  was  one  of  Mr.  Stevenson's  favourite  recreations. 

525 


LETTERS   FROM  SAMOA 


TO  AUSTIN  STRONG 

January  27,  i8p^. 
Dear  General  Hoskyns,— I  have  the  honour  to  report  as  usual.  Your 
giddy  mother  having  gone  planting  a  flower-garden,  I  am  obliged  to 
write  with  my  own  hand,  and,  of  course,  nobody  will  be  able  to  read  it. 
This  has  been  a  very  mean  kind  of  a  month.  Aunt  Maggie  left  with  the 
influenza.  We  have  heard  of  her  from  Sydney,  and  she  is  all  right  again ; 
but  we  have  inherited  her  influenza,  and  it  made  a  poor  place  of  Vailima. 
We  had  Talolo,  Mitaele,  Sosimo,  lopu,  Sina,  Misifolo,  and  myself,  all 
sick  in  bed  at  the  same  time ;  and  was  not  that  a  pretty  dish  to  set  before 
the  king!  The  big  hall  of  the  new  house  having  no  furniture,  the  sick 
pitched  their  tents  in  it,— I  mean  their  mosquito-nets,— like  a  military 
camp.  The  Tamaitai  and  your  mother  went  about  looking  after  them, 
and  managed  to  get  us  something  to  eat.  Henry,  the  good  boy!  though 
he  was  getting  it  himself,  did  housework,  and  went  round  at  night  from 
one  mosquito-net  to  another,  praying  with  the  sick.  Sina,  too,  was  as 
good  as  gold,  and  helped  fis  greatly.  We  shall  always  like  her  better. 
All  the  time— I  do  not  know  how  they  managed— your  mother  found  the 
time  to  come  and  write  for  me ;  and  for  three  days,  as  1  had  my  old 
trouble  on,  and  had  to  play  dumb  man,  I  dictated  a  novel  in  the  deaf- 
and-dumb  alphabet.  But  now  we  are  all  recovered,  and  getting  to  feel 
quite  fit,  A  new  paddock  has  been  made ;  the  wires  come  right  up  to 
the  top  of  the  hill,  pass  within  twenty  yards  of  the  big  clump  of  flowers 
(if  you  remember  that)  and  by  the  end  of  the  pineapple  patch.  The 
Tamaitai  and  your  mother  and  I  all  sleep  in  the  upper  story  of  the  new 
house.  Uncle  Lloyd  is  alone  in  the  workman's  cottage;  and  there  ij 
nobody  at  all  at  night  in  the  old  house,  but  ants  and  cats  and  mosquitos 
The  whole  inside  of  the  new  house  is  varnished.  It  is  a  beautiful  golden^ 
brown  by  day,  and  in  lamplight  all  black,  and  sparkle.  In  the  comer  of 
the  hall  the  new  safe  is  built  in,  and  looks  as  if  it  had  millions  of  pounds 
in  it ;  but  I  do  not  think  there  is  much  more  than  twenty  dollars  and  a 
spoon  or  two ;  so  the  man  that  opens  it  will  have  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
for  nothing.  Our  great  fear  is  lest  we  should  forget  how  to  open  it ;  but 
it  will  look  just  as  well  if  we  can't.  Poor  Misifolo— you  remember  the 
thin  boy,  do  you  not  ?— had  a  desperate  attack  of  influenza ;  and  he  was 
in  a  great  taking.     You  would  not  like  to  be  very  sick  in  some  savage 

526 


LETTERS  TO   YOUNG  PEOPLE 

place  in  the  islands,  and  have  only  the  savages  to  doctor  you.  Well, 
that  was  just  the  way  he  felt.  "It  is  all  very  well,"  he  thought,  "to 
let  these  childish  white  people  doctor  a  sore  foot  or  a  toothache,  but  this 
is  serious— I  might  die  of  this!  For  goodness'  sake,  let  me  get  away  into 
a  draughty  native  house,  where  I  can  lie  in  cold  gravel,  eat  green  bananas, 
and  have  a  real  grown-up,  tattooed  man  to  raise  spirits  and  say  charms 
over  me."  A  day  or  two  we  kept  him  quiet,  and  got  him  much  better. 
Then  he  said  he  must  go.  He  had  had  his  back  broken  in  his  own 
island,  he  said ;  it  had  come  broken  again,  and  he  must  go  away  to  a 
native  house,  and  have  it  mended.  "Confound  your  back!"  said  we; 
"lie  down  in  your  bed."  At  last,  one  day,  his  fever  was  quite  gone, 
and  he  could  give  his  mind  to  the  broken  back  entirely.  He  lay  in  the 
hall ;  I  was  in  the  room  alone ;  all  morning  and  noon  I  heard  him  roaring 
like  a  bull  calf,  so  that  the  floor  shook  with  it.  It  was  plainly  humbug ; 
it  had  the  humbugging  sound  of  a  bad  child  crying ;  and  about  two  of 
the  afternoon  we  were  worn  out,  and  told  him  he  might  go.  Off  he  set. 
He  was  in  some  kind  of  a  white  wrapping,  with  a  great  white  turban  on 
his  head,  as  pale  as  clay,  and  walked  leaning  on  a  stick.  But,  O,  he  was 
a  glad  boy  to  get  away  from  these  foolish,  savage,  childish  white  people, 
and  get  his  broken  back  put  right  by  somebody  with  some  sense.  He 
nearly  died  that  night,  and  little  wonder!  but  he  has  now  got  better  again, 
and  long  may  it  last!  All  the  others  were  quite  good,  trusted  us  wholly, 
and  stayed  to  be  cured  where  they  were.  But  then  he  was  quite  right, 
if  you  look  at  it  from  his  point  of  view ;  for,  though  we  may  be  very 
clever,  we  do  not  set  up  to  cure  broken  backs.  If  a  man  has  his  back 
broken,  we  white  people  can  do  nothing  at  all  but  bury  him.  And  was 
he  not  wise,  since  that  was  his  complaint,  to  go  to  folks  who  could  do 
more? 

Best  love  to  yourself,  and  Louie,  and  Aunt  Nellie,  and  apologies  for  so 
^ull  a  letter,  from  your  respectful  and  affectionate 

Uncle  Louis. 


5^7 


LAY  MORALS 


The  following  chapters  of  a  projected  treatise  on  ethics,  here 
printed  for  the  first  time,  were  drafted  at  Edinburgh  in  the 
spring  of  1879.  They  are  unrevised,  and  must  not  he  taken 
as  representing,  either  as  to  matter  or  form,  their  author's 
final  thoughts;  hut  they  contain  much  that  is  essentially 
characteristic  of  his  mind. 


LAY  MORALS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  problem  of  education  is  twofold:  first  to  know, 
and  then  to  utter.  Every  one  who  lives  any 
semblance  of  an  inner  life  thinks  more  nobly  and  pro- 
foundly than  he  speaks;  and  the  best  of  teachers  can 
impart  only  broken  images  of  the  truth  which  they 
perceive.  Speech  which  goes  from  one  to  another  be- 
tween two  natures,  and,  what  is  worse,  between  two 
experiences,  is  doubly  relative.  The  speaker  buries 
his  meaning;  it  is  for  the  hearer  to  dig  it  up  again;  and 
all  speech,  written  or  spoken,  is  in  a  dead  language 
until  it  finds  a  willing  and  prepared  hearer.  Such, 
moreover,  is  the  complexity  of  life,  that  when  we  con- 
descend upon  details  in  our  advice,  we  may  be  sure  we 
condescend  on  error;  and  the  best  of  education  is  to 
throw  out  some  magnanimous  hints.  No  man  was 
ever  so  poor  that  he  could  express  all  he  has  in  him 
by  words,  looks,  or  actions;  his  true  knowledge  is 
eternally  incommunicable,  for  it  is  a  knowledge  of 
himself;  and  his  best  wisdom  comes  to  him  by  no 
process  of  the  mind,  but  in  a  supreme  self-dictation, 

531 


LAY  MORALS 

which  keeps  varying  from  hour  to  hour  in  its  dictates 
with  the  variation  of  events  and  circumstances. 

A  few  men  of  picked  nature,  full  of  faith,  courage, 
and  contempt  for  others,  try  earnestly  to  set  forth  as 
much  as  they  can  grasp  of  this  inner  law;  but  the  vast 
majority,  when  they  come  to  advise  the  young,  must 
be  content  to  retail  certain  doctrines  which  have  been 
already  retailed  to  them  in  their  own  youth.  Every 
generation  has  to  educate  another  which  it  has  brought 
upon  the  stage.  People  who  readily  accept  the  re- 
sponsibility of  parentship,  having  very  different  matters 
in  their  eye,  are  apt  to  feel  rueful  when  that  responsi- 
bility falls  due.  What  are  they  to  tell  the  child  about 
life  and  conduct,  subjects  on  which  they  have  them- 
selves so  few  and  such  confused  opinions  ?  Indeed,  I 
do  not  know;  the  least  said,  perhaps,  the  soonest 
mended;  and  yet  the  child  keeps  asking,  and  the  pa- 
rent must  find  some  words  to  say  in  his  own  defence. 
Where  does  he  find  them  ?  and  what  are  they  when 
found  ? 

As  a  matter  of  experience,  and  in  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  thousand,  he  will  instil  into 
his  wide-eyed  brat  three  bad  things ;  the  terror  of  public 
opinion,  and,  flowing  from  that  as  a  fountain,  the  de- 
sire of  wealth  and  applause.  Besides  these,  or  what 
might  be  deduced  as  corollaries  from  these,  he  will 
teach  not  much  else  of  any  effective  value:  some  dim 
notions  of  divinity,  perhaps,  and  book-keeping,  and 
how  to  walk  through  a  quadrille. 

But,  you  may  tell  me,  the  young  people  are  taught 
to  be  Christians.  It  may  be  want  of  penetration,  but 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  perceive  it.     As  an  honest 

532 


LAY   MORALS 

man,  whatever  we  teach,  and  be  it  good  or  evil,  it  is 
not  the  doctrine  of  Christ.  What  he  taught  (and  in 
this  he  is  like  all  other  teachers  worthy  of  the  name) 
was  not  a  code  of  rules,  but  a  ruling  spirit;  not  truths, 
but  a  spirit  of  truth ;  not  views,  but  a  view.  What  he 
showed  us  was  an  attitude  of  mind.  Towards  the 
many  considerations  on  which  conduct  is  built,  each 
man  stands  in  a  certain  relation.  He  takes  life  on  a 
certain  principle.  He  has  a  compass  in  his  spirit  which 
points  in  a  certain  direction.  It  is  the  attitude,  the  re- 
lation, the  point  of  the  compass,  that  is  the  whole  body 
and  gist  of  what  he  has  to  teach  us ;  in  this,  the  details 
are  comprehended;  out  of  this  the  specific  precepts 
issue,  and  by  this,  and  this  only,  can  they  be  explained 
and  applied.  And  thus,  to  learn  aright  from  any 
teacher,  we  must  first  of  all,  like  a  historical  artist, 
think  ourselves  into  sympathy  with  his  position  and, 
in  the  technical  phrase,  create  his  character.  A  histo- 
rian confronted  with  some  ambiguous  politician,  or  an 
actor  charged  with  a  part,  have  but  one  preoccupation ; 
they  must  search  all  round  and  upon  every  side,  and 
grope  for  some  central  conception  which  is  to  explain 
and  justify  the  most  extreme  details ;  until  that  is  found, 
the  politician  is  an  enigma,  or  perhaps  a  quack,  and  the 
part  a  tissue  of  fustian  sentiment  and  big  words ;  but 
once  that  is  found,  all  enters  into  a  plan,  a  human  na- 
ture appears,  the  politician  or  the  stage-king  is  under- 
stood from  point  to  point,  from  end  to  end.  This  is  a 
degree  of  trouble  which  will  be  gladly  taken  by  a  very 
humble  artist;  but  not  even  the  terror  of  eternal  fire 
can  teach  a  business  man  to  bend  his  imagination  to 
such  athletic  efforts.      Yet  without  this,  all  is  vain; 

53} 


LAY   MORALS 

until  we  understand  the  whole,  we  shall  understand 
none  of  the  parts;  and  otherwise  we  have  no  more 
than  broken  images  and  scattered  words ;  the  meaning 
remains  buried ;  and  the  language  in  which  our  prophet 
speaks  to  us  is  a  dead  language  in  our  ears. 

Take  a  few  of  Christ's  sayings  and  compare  them 
with  our  current  doctrines. 

"  Ye  cannot,"  he  says,  "serve  God  and  Mammon.'* 
Cannot  ?  And  our  whole  system  is  to  teach  us  how 
we  can ! 

"  The  children  of  this  world  are  wiser  in  their  genera- 
tion than  the  children  of  light. "  Are  they  ?  I  had  been 
led  to  understand  the  reverse:  that  the  Christian  mer- 
chant, for  example,  prospered  exceedingly  in  his  affairs; 
that  honesty  was  the  best  policy;  that  an  author  of 
repute  had  written  a  conclusive  treatise  "  How  to  make 
the  best  of  both  worlds."  Of  both  worlds  indeed! 
Which  am  I  to  believe  then— Christ  or  the  author  of 
repute? 

"  Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow."  Ask  the  Suc- 
cessful Merchant;  interrogate  your  own  heart;  and  you 
will  have  to  admit  that  this  is  not  only  a  silly  but  an 
immoral  position.  All  we  believe,  all  we  hope,  all  we 
honour  in  ourselves  or  our  contemporaries,  stands 
condemned  in  this  one  sentence,  or,  if  you  take  the 
other  view,  condemns  the  sentence  as  unwise  and  in- 
humane. We  are  not  then  of  the  "same  mind  that 
was  in  Christ."  We  disagree  with  Christ.  Either 
Christ  meant  nothing,  or  else  he  or  we  must  be  in  the 
wrong.  Well  says  Thoreau,  speaking  of  some  texts 
from  the  New  Testament,  and  finding  a  strange  echo 
of  another  style  which  the  reader  may  recognise :  "  Let 

534 


LAY   MORALS 

but  one  of  these  sentences  be  rightly  read  from  any 
pulpit  in  the  land,  and  there  would  not  be  left  one  stone 
of  that  meeting-house  upon  another." 

It  may  be  objected  that  these  are  what  are  called 
"  hard  sayings  " ;  and  that  a  man,  or  an  education,  may 
be  very  sufficiently  Christian  although  it  leave  some  of 
these  sayings  upon  one  side.  But  this  is  a  very  gross 
delusion.  Although  truth  is  difficult  to  state,  it  is  both 
easy  and  agreeable  to  receive,  and  the  mind  runs  out  to 
meet  it  ere  the  phrase  be  done.  The  universe,  in  relation 
to  what  any  man  can  say  of  it,  is  plain,  patent,  and 
staringly  comprehensible.  In  itself,  it  is  a  great  and 
travailing  ocean,  unsounded,  unvoyageable,  an  eternal 
mystery  to  man;  or,  let  us  say,  it  is  a  monstrous  and 
impassable  mountain,  one  side  of  which,  and  a  few 
near  slopes  and  foot-hills,  we  can  dimly  study  with 
these  mortal  eyes.  But  what  any  man  can  say  of  it, 
even  in  his  highest  utterance,  must  have  relation  to 
this  little  and  plain  corner,  which  is  no  less  visible  to 
us  than  to  him.  We  are  looking  on  the  same  map;  it 
will  go  hard  if  we  cannot  follow  the  demonstration. 
The  longest  and  most  abstruse  flight  of  a  philosopher 
becomes  clear  and  shallow,  in  the  flash  of  a  moment, 
when  we  suddenly  perceive  the  aspect  and  drift  of  his 
intention.  The  longest  argument  is  but  a  finger  pointed ; 
once  we  get  our  own  finger  rightly  parallel,  and  we  see 
what  the  man  meant,  whether  it  be  a  new  star  or  an 
old  street-lamp.  And  briefly,  if  a  saying  is  hard  to 
understand,  it  is  because  we  are  thinking  of  something 
else. 

But  to  be  a  true  disciple  is  to  think  of  the  same  things 
as  our  prophet,  and  to  think  of  different  things  in  the 

535 


LAY   MORALS 

same  order.  To  be  of  the  same  mind  with  another  is 
to  see  all  things  in  the  same  perspective;  it  is  not  to 
agree  in  a  few  indifferent  matters  near  at  hand  and  not 
much  debated ;  it  is  to  follow  him  in  his  farthest  flights, 
to  see  the  force  of  his  hyperboles,  to  stand  so  exactly 
in  the  centre  of  his  vision  that  whatever  he  may  express, 
your  eyes  will  light  at  once  on  the  original,  that  what- 
ever he  may  see  to  declare,  your  mind  will  at  once 
accept.  You  do  not  belong  to  the  school  of  any  phi- 
losopher because  you  agree  with  him  that  theft  is,  on 
the  whole,  objectionable,  or  that  the  sun  is  overhead 
at  noon.  It  is  by  the  hard  sayings  that  discipleship  is 
tested.  We  are  all  agreed  about  the  middling  and  in- 
different parts  of  knowledge  and  morality;  even  the 
most  soaring  spirits  too  often  take  them  tamely  upon 
trust.  But  the  man,  the  philosopher  or  the  moralist, 
does  not  stand  upon  these  chance  adhesions;  and  the 
purpose  of  any  system  looks  towards  those  extreme 
points  where  it  steps  valiantly  beyond  tradition  and 
returns  with  some  covert  hint  of  things  outside.  Then 
only  can  you  be  certain  that  the  words  are  not  words  of 
course,  nor  mere  echoes  of  the  past;  then  only  are  you 
sure  that  if  he  be  indicating  anything  at  all,  it  is  a  star 
and  not  a  street-lamp;  then  only  do  you  touch  the  heart 
of  the  mystery,  since  it  was  for  these  that  the  author 
wrote  his  book. 

Now,  every  now  and  then,  and  indeed  surprisingly 
often,  Christ  finds  a  word  that  transcends  all  com- 
monplace morality;  every  now  and  then  he  quits  the 
beaten  track  to  pioneer  the  unexpressed,  and  throws 
out  a  pregnant  and  magnanimous  hyperbole;  for  it 
is  only  by  some  bold  poetry  of  thought  that  men  can 

5^^ 


LAY   MORALS 

be  Strung  up  above  the  level  of  every-day  conceptions 
to  take  a  broader  look  upon  experience  or  accept  some 
higher  principle  of  conduct.  To  a  man  who  is  of  the 
same  mind  that  was  in  Christ,  who  stands  at  some  centre 
not  too  far  from  his,  and  looks  at  the  world  and  con- 
duct from  some  not  dissimilar  or,  at  least,  not  opposing 
attitude— or,  shortly,  to  a  man  who  is  of  Christ's  phi- 
losophy—every such  saying  should  come  home  with  a 
thrill  of  joy  and  corroboration ;  he  should  feel  each  one 
below  his  feet  as  another  sure  foundation  in  the  flux  of 
time  and  chance;  each  should  be  another  proof  that  in 
the  torrent  of  the  years  and  generations,  where  doctrines 
and  great  armaments  and  empires  are  swept  away  and 
swallowed,  he  stands  immovable,  holding  by  the  eternal 
stars.  But  alas !  at  this  juncture  of  the  ages  it  is  not  so 
with  us;  on  each  and  every  such  occasion  our  whole 
fellowship  of  Christians  falls  back  in  disapproving  won- 
der and  implicitly  denies  the  saying.  Christians!  the 
farce  is  impudently  broad.  Let  us  stand  up  in  the  sight 
of  heaven  and  confess.  The  ethics  that  we  hold  are 
those  of  Benjamin  Franklin.  Honesty  is  the  best  policy, 
is  perhaps  a  hard  saying;  it  is  certainly  one  by  which  a 
wise  man  of  these  days  will  not  too  curiously  direct  his 
steps;  but  I  think  it  shows  a  glimmer  of  meaning  to 
even  our  most  dimmed  intelligences;  I  think  we  per- 
ceive a  principle  behind  it;  I  think,  without  hyperbole, 
we  are  of  the  same  mind  that  was  in  Benjamin  Franklin. 


537 


CHAPTER  II 

But,  I  may  be  told,  we  teach  the  ten  commandments, 
where  a  world  of  morals  lies  condensed,  the  very  pith 
and  epitome  of  all  ethics  and  religion ;  and  a  young  man 
with  these  precepts  engraved  upon  his  mind  must 
follow  after  profit  with  some  conscience  and  Christianity 
of  method.  A  man  cannot  go  very  far  astray  who 
neither  dishonours  his  parents,  nor  kills,  nor  commits 
adultery,  npr  steals,  nor  bears  false  witness ;  for  these 
things,  rightly  thought  out,  cover  a  vast  field  of  duty. 

Alas!  what  is  a  precept?  It  is  at  best  an  illustra- 
tion; it  is  case  law  at  the  best  which  can  be  learned 
by  precept.  The  letter  is  not  only  dead,  but  killing; 
the  spirit  which  underlies,  and  cannot  be  uttered,  alone 
is  true  and  helpful.  This  is  trite  to  sickness;  but 
familiarity  has  a  cunning  disenchantment;  in  a  day  or 
two  she  can  steal  all  beauty  from  the  mountain-tops; 
and  the  most  startling  words  begin  to  fall  dead  upon 
the  ear  after  several  repetitions.  If  you  see  a  thing  too 
often,  you  no  longer  see  it;  if  you  hear  a  thing  too 
often,  you  no  longer  hear  it.  Our  attention  requires  to 
be  surprised ;  and  to  carry  a  fort  by  assault,  or  to  gain 
a  thoughtful  hearing  from  the  ruck  of  mankind,  are 
feats  of  about  an  equal  difficulty  and  must  be  tried  by 
not  dissimilar  means.  The  whole  Bible  has  thus  lost 
its  message  for  the  common  run  of  hearers;  it  has  be- 

538 


LAY   MORALS 

come  mere  words  of  course;  and  the  parson  may  bawl 
himself  scarlet  and  beat  the  pulpit  like  a  thing  possessed, 
but  his  hearers  will  continue  to  nod ;  they  are  strangely 
at  peace;  they  know  all  he  has  to  say;  ring  the  old  bell 
as  you  choose,  it  is  still  the  old  bell  and  it  cannot  startle 
their  composure.  And  so  with  this  by-word  about  the 
letter  and  the  spirit.  It  is  quite  true,  no  doubt;  but  it 
has  no  meaning  in  the  world  to  any  man  of  us.  Alas! 
it  has  just  this  meaning,  and  neither  more  nor  less :  that 
while  the  spirit  is  true,  the  letter  is  eternally  false. 

The  shadow  of  a  great  oak  lies  abroad  upon  the  ground 
at  noon,  perfect,  clear,  and  stable  like  the  earth.  But 
let  a  man  set  himself  to  mark  out  the  boundary  with 
cords  and  pegs,  and  were  he  never  so  nimble  and  never 
so  exact,  what  with  the  multiplicity  of  the  leaves  and 
the  progression  of  the  shadow  as  it  flees  before  the 
travelling  sun,  long  ere  he  has  made  the  circuit  the 
whole  figure  will  have  changed.  Life  may  be  com- 
pared, not  to  a  single  tree,  but  to  a  great  and  compli- 
cated forest;  circumstance  is  more  swiftly  changing 
than  a  shadow,  language  much  more  inexact  than  the 
tools  of  a  surveyor;  from  day  to  day  the  trees  fall  and 
are  renewed ;  the  very  essences  are  fleeting  as  we  look ; 
and  the  whole  world  of  leaves  is  swinging  tempest- 
tossed  among  the  winds  of  time.  Look  now  for  your 
shadows.  O  man  of  formulae,  is  this  a  place  for  you  ? 
Have  you  fitted  the  spirit  to  a  single  case  ?  Alas,  in 
the  cycle  of  the  ages  when  shall  such  another  be  pro- 
posed for  the  judgment  of  man  ?  Now  when  the  sun 
shines  and  the  winds  blow,  the  wood  is  filled  with  an 
innumerable  multitude  of  shadows,  tumultuously  tossed 
and  changing;  and  at  every  gust  the  whole  carpet  leaps 

539 


LAY   MORALS 

and  becomes  new.  Can  you  or  your  heart  say 
more? 

Look  back  now,  for  a  moment,  on  your  own  brief 
experience  of  life;  and  although  you  lived  it  feelingly  in 
your  own  person,  and  had  every  step  of  conduct  burned 
in  by  pains  and  joys  upon  your  memory,  tell  me  what 
definite  lesson  does  experience  hand  on  from  youth  to 
manhood,  or  from  both  to  age  ?  The  settled  tenor 
which  first  strikes  the  eye  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  delu- 
sion. This  is  gone;  that  never  truly  was;  and  you 
yourself  are  altered  beyond  recognition.  Times  and 
men  and  circumstances  change  about  your  changing 
character,  with  a  speed  of  which  no  earthly  hurricane 
affords  an  image.  What  was  the  best  yesterday,  is  it 
still  the  best  in  this  changed  theatre  of  a  to-morrow  ? 
Will  your  own  Past  truly  guide  you  in  your  own  violent 
and  unexpected  Future  ?  And  if  this  be  questionable, 
with  what  humble,  with  what  hopeless  eyes,  should  we 
not  watch  other  men  driving  beside  us  on  their  unknown 
careers,  seeing  with  unlike  eyes,  impelled  by  different 
gales,  doing  and  suffering  in  another  sphere  of  things  ? 

And  as  the  authentic  clue  to  such  a  labyrinth  and 
change  of  scene,  do  you  offer  me  these  twoscore  words  ? 
these  five  bald  prohibitions  ?  For  the  moral  precepts 
are  no  more  than  five;  the  first  four  deal  rather  with 
matters  of  observance  than  of  conduct;  the  tenth,  Tbou 
Shalt  not  comet,  stands  upon  another  basis,  and  shall  be 
spoken  of  ere  long.  The  Jews,  to  whom  they  were 
first  given,  in  the  course  of  years  began  to  find  these 
precepts  insufficient;  and  made  an  addition  of  no  less 
than  six  hundred  and  fifty  others !  They  hoped  tc  make 
a  pocket-book  of  reference  on  morals,  which  should 

540 


LAY  MORALS 

Stand  to  life  in  some  such  relation,  say,  as  Hoyle  stands 
in  to  the  scientific  game  of  whist.  The  comparison  is 
just,  and  condemns  the  design ;  for  those  who  play  by 
rule  will  never  be  more  than  tolerable  players ;  and  you 
and  I  would  like  to  play  our  game  in  life  to  the  noblest 
and  the  most  divine  advantage.  Yet  if  the  Jews  took 
a  petty  and  huckstering  view  of  conduct,  what  view 
do  we  take  ourselves,  who  callously  leave  youth  to  go 
forth  into  the  enchanted  forest,  full  of  spells  and  dire 
chimeras,  with  no  guidance  more  complete  than  is 
afforded  by  these  five  precepts  ? 

Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother.  Yes,  but  does 
that  mean  to  obey  }  and  if  so,  how  long  and  how  far  > 
Thou  Shalt  not  hill.  Yet  the  very  intention  and  purport 
of  the  prohibition  may  be  best  fulfilled  by  killing. 
Thou  Shalt  not  commit  adultery.  But  some  of  the 
ugliest  adulteries  are  committed  in  the  bed  of  marriage 
and  under  the  sanction  of  religion  and  law.  Thou  shall 
not  bear  false  witness.  How  >  by  speech  or  by  silence 
also  }  or  even  by  a  smile  }  Thou  shalt  not  steal.  Ah, 
that  indeed !     But  what  is  to  steal  ? 

To  steal  ?  It  is  another  word  to  be  construed ;  and 
who  is  to  be  our  guide  ?  The  police  will  give  us  one 
construction,  leaving  the  word  only  that  least  minimum 
of  meaning  without  which  society  would  fall  in  pieces ; 
but  surely  we  must  take  some  higher  sense  than  this; 
surely  we  hope  more  than  a  bare  subsistence  for  man- 
kind; surely  we  wish  mankind  to  prosper  and  go  on 
from  strength  to  strength,  and  ourselves  to  live  rightly 
in  the  eye  of  some  more  exacting  potentate  than  a 
policeman.  The  approval  or  the  disapproval  of  the 
police  must  be  eternally  indifferent  to  a  man  who  is 

54» 


LAY   MORALS 

both  valorous  and  good.  There  is  extreme  discomfort, 
but  no  shame,  in  the  condemnation  of  the  law.  The 
law  represents  that  modicum  of  morality  which  can  be 
squeezed  out  of  the  ruck  of  mankind;  but  what  is  that 
to  me,  who  aim  higher  and  seek  to  be  my  own  more 
stringent  judge  ?  I  observe  with  pleasure  that  no  brave 
man  has  ever  given  a  rush  for  such  considerations. 
The  Japanese  have  a  nobler  and  more  sentimental  feel- 
ing for  this  social  bond  into  which  we  all  are  born 
when  we  come  into  the  world,  and  whose  comforts 
and  protection  we  all  indifferently  share  throughout  our 
lives:— but  even  to  them,  no  more  than  to  our  Western 
saints  and  heroes,  does  the  law  of  the  state  supersede 
the  higher  law  of  duty.  Without  hesitation  and  with- 
out remorse,  they  transgress  the  stiffest  enactments 
rather  than  abstain  from  doing  right.  But  the  accidental 
superior  duty  being  thus  fulfilled,  they  at  once  return 
in  allegiance  to  the  common  duty  of  all  citizens;  and 
hasten  to  denounce  themselves;  and  value  at  an  equal 
rate  their  just  crime  and  their  equally  just  submission 
to  its  punishment. 

The  evading  of  the  police  will  not  long  satisfy  an 
active  conscience  or  a  thoughtful  head.  But  to  show 
you  how  one  or  the  other  may  trouble  a  man,  and  what 
a  vast  extent  of  frontier  is  left  unridden  by  this  invalu- 
able eighth  commandment,  let  me  tell  you  a  few  pages 
out  of  a  young  man's  life. 

He  was  a  friend  of  mine;  a  young  man  like  others; 
generous,  flighty,  as  variable  as  youth  itself,  but  always 
with  some  high  motions  and  on  the  search  for  higher 
thoughts  of  life.  I  should  tell  you  at  once  that  he  thor- 
oughly agrees  with  the  eighth  commandment.     But  he 

542 


LAY   MORALS 

got  hold  of  some  unsettling  works,  the  New  Testament 
among  others,  and  this  loosened  his  views  of  life  and 
led  him  into  many  perplexities.  As  he  was  the  son  of 
a  man  in  a  certain  position,  and  well  off,  my  friend  had 
enjoyed  from  the  first  the  advantages  of  education, 
nay,  he  had  been  kept  alive  through  a  sickly  child- 
hood by  constant  watchfulness,  comforts,  and  change 
of  air;  for  all  of  which  he  was  indebted  to  his  father's 
wealth. 

At  college  he  met  other  lads  more  diligent  than  him- 
self, who  followed  the  plough  in  summer-time  to  pay 
their  college  fees  in  winter;  and  this  inequality  struck 
him  with  some  force.  He  was  at  that  age  of  a  con- 
versable temper,  and  insatiably  curious  in  the  aspects 
of  life ;  and  he  spent  much  of  his  time  scraping  acquain- 
tance with  all  classes  of  man-  and  womankind.  In 
this  way  he  came  upon  many  depressed  ambitions,  and 
many  intelligences  stunted  for  want  of  opportunity; 
and  this  also  struck  him.  He  began  to  perceive  that 
life  was  a  handicap  upon  strange,  wrong-sided  prin- 
ciples; and  not,  as  he  had  been  told,  a  fair  and  equal 
race.  He  began  to  tremble  that  he  himself  had  been 
unjustly  favoured,  when  he  saw  all  the  avenues  of 
wealth  and  power  and  comfort  closed  against  so 
many  of  his  superiors  and  equals,  and  held  unweary- 
ingly  open  before  so  idle,  so  desultory,  and  so  dissolute 
a  being  as  himself.  There  sat  a  youth  beside  him  on 
the  college  benches,  who  had  only  one  shirt  to  his  back, 
and,  at  intervals  sufficiently  far  apart,  must  stay  at  home 
to  have  it  washed.  It  was  my  friend's  principle  to 
stay  away  as  often  as  he  dared;  for  I  fear  he  was  no 
friend  to  learning.    But  there  was  something  that  came 

543 


LAY  MORALS 

home  to  him  sharply,  in  this  fellow  who  had  to  give 
over  study  till  his  shirt  was  washed,  and  the  scores  of 
others  who  had  never  an  opportunity  at  all.  If  one  of 
these  could  take  his  place^  he  thought ;  and  the  thought 
tore  away  a  bandage  from  his  eyes.  He  was  eaten  by 
the  shame  of  his  discoveries,  and  despised  himself  as 
an  unworthy  favourite  and  a  creature  of  the  backstairs 
of  Fortune.  He  could  no  longer  see  without  confusion 
one  of  these  brave  young  fellows  battling  up  hill  against 
adversity.  Had  he  not  filched  that  fellow's  birthright } 
At  best  was  he  not  coldly  profiting  by  the  injustice  of 
society,  and  greedily  devouring  stolen  goods .?  The 
money,  indeed,  belonged  to  his  father,  who  had  worked, 
and  thought,  and  given  up  his  liberty  to  earn  it;  but  by 
what  justice  could  the  money  belong  to  my  friend,  who 
had,  as  yet,  done  nothing  but  help  to  squander  it.^  A 
more  sturdy  honesty,  joined  to  a  more  even  and  im- 
partial temperament,  would  have  drawn  from  these 
considerations  a  new  force  of  industry,  that  this  equiv- 
ocal position  might  be  brought  as  swiftly  as  possible 
to  an  end,  and  some  good  services  to  mankind  justify 
the  appropriation  of  expense.  It  was  not  so  with  my 
friend,  who  was  only  unsettled  and  discouraged,  and 
filled  full  of  that  trumpeting  anger  with  which  young 
men  regard  injustices  in  the  first  blush  of  youth;  al- 
though in  a  few  years  they  will  tamely  acquiesce  in 
their  existence,  and  knowingly  profit  by  their  compli- 
cations. Yet  all  this  while  he  suffered  many  indignant 
pangs.  And  once,  when  he  put  on  his  boots,  like  any 
other  unripe  donkey,  to  run  away  from  home,  it  was 
his  best  consolation  that  he  was  now,  at  a  single  plunge, 
to  free  himself  from  the  responsibility  of  this  wealth 

544 


LAY   MORALS 

that  was  not  his,  and  do  battle  equally  against  his  fel- 
lows in  the  warfare  of  life. 

Some  time  after  this,  falling  into  ill  health,  he  was 
sent  at  great  expense  to  a  more  favourable  climate ;  and 
then  I  think  his  perplexities  were  thickest.  When  he 
thought  of  all  the  other  young  men  of  singular  promise, 
upright,  good,  the  prop  of  families,  who  must  remain 
at  home  to  die,  and  with  all  their  possibilities  be  lost  to 
life  and  mankind ;  and  how  he,  by  one  more  unmerited 
favour,  was  chosen  out  from  all  these  others  to  sur- 
vive; he  felt  as  if  there  were  no  life,  no  labour,  no 
devotion  of  soul  and  body,  that  could  repay  and  justify 
these  partialities.  A  religious  lady,  to  whom  he  com- 
municated these  reflections,  could  see  no  force  in  them 
whatever.  "It  was  God's  will,"  said  she.  But  he 
knew  it  was  by  God's  will  that  Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt 
at  Rouen,  which  cleared  neither  Bedford  nor  Bishop 
Cauchon;  and  again,  by  God's  will  that  Christ  was 
crucified  outside  Jerusalem,  which  excused  neither  the 
rancour  of  the  priests  nor  the  timidity  of  Pilate.  He 
knew,  moreover,  that  although  the  possibility  of  this 
favour  he  was  now  enjoying  issued  from  his  circum- 
stances, its  acceptance  was  the  act  of  his  own  will; 
and  he  had  accepted  it  greedily,  longing  for  rest  and 
sunshine.  And  hence  this  allegation  of  God's  provi- 
dence did  little  to  relieve  his  scruples.  I  promise  you 
he  had  a  very  troubled  mind.  And  I  would  not  laugh 
if  I  were  you,  though  while  he  was  thus  making  moun- 
tains out  of  what  you  think  mole-hills,  he  were  still 
(as  perhaps  he  was)  contentedly  practising  many  other 
things  that  to  you  seem  black  as  hell.  Every  man  is 
his  own  judge  and  mountain-guide  through  life.     There 

545 


LAY   MORALS 

is  an  old  story  of  a  mote  and  a  beam,  apparently  not 
true,  but  worthy  perhaps  of  some  consideration.  I 
should,  if  I  were  you,  give  some  consideration  to  these 
scruples  of  his,  and  if  I  were  he,  I  should  do  the  like 
by  yours ;  for  it  is  not  unlikely  that  there  may  be  some- 
thing under  both.  In  the  meantime  you  must  hear 
how  my  friend  acted.  Like  many  invalids,  he  supposed 
that  he  would  die.  Now  should  he  die,  he  saw  no 
means  of  repaying  this  huge  loan  which,  by  the  hands 
of  his  father,  mankind  had  advanced  him  for  his  sick- 
ness. In  that  case  it  would  be  lost  money.  So  he 
determined  that  the  advance  should  be  as  small  as  pos- 
sible ;  and,  so  long  as  he  continued  to  doubt  his  recov- 
ery, lived  in  an  upper  room,  and  grudged  himself  all 
but  necessaries.  But  so  soon  as  he  began  to  perceive  a 
change  for  the  better,  he  felt  justified  in  spending  more 
freely,  to  speed  and  brighten  his  return  to  health,  and 
trusted  in  the  future  to  lend  a  help  to  mankind,  as 
mankind,  out  of  its  treasury,  had  lent  a  help  to  him. 

I  do  not  say  but  that  my  friend  was  a  little  too  curi- 
ous and  partial  in  his  view;  nor  thought  too  much  of 
himself  and  too  little  of  his  parents ;  but  I  do  say  that 
here  are  some  scruples  which  tormented  my  friend  in 
his  youth,  and  still,  perhaps,  at  odd  times  give  him  a 
prick  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments,  and  which  after 
all  have  some  foundation  in  justice,  and  point,  in  their 
confused  way,  to  some  more  honourable  honesty  within 
the  reach  of  man.  And  at  least,  is  not  this  an  unusual 
gloss  upon  the  eighth  commandment  ?  And  what  sort 
of  comfort,  guidance,  or  illumination  did  that  precept 
afford  my  friend  throughout  these  contentions  ?  "  Thou 
shalt  not  steal. "    With  all  my  heart !     But  am  I  stealing? 

546 


LAY   MORALS 

The  truly  quaint  materialism  of  our  view  of  life  dis- 
ables us  from  pursuing  any  transaction  to  an  end.  You 
can  make  no  one  understand  that  his  bargain  is  any- 
thing more  than  a  bargain,  whereas  in  point  of  fact  it  is 
a  link  in  the  policy  of  mankind,  and  either  a  good  or 
an  evil  to  the  world.  We  have  a  sort  of  blindness 
which  prevents  us  from  seeing  anything  but  sovereigns. 
If  one  man  agrees  to  give  another  so  many  shillings  for 
so  many  hours'  work,  and  then  wilfully  gives  him  a 
certain  proportion  of  the  price  in  bad  money  and  only 
the  remainder  in  good,  we  can  see  with  half  an  eye  that 
this  man  is  a  thief.  But  if  the  other  spends  a  certain 
proportion  of  the  hours  in  smoking  a  pipe  of  tobacco, 
and  a  certain  other  proportion  in  looking  at  the  sky,  or 
the  clock,  or  trying  to  recall  an  air,  or  in  meditation  on 
his  own  past  adventures,  and  only  the  remainder  in 
downright  work  such  as  he  is  paid  to  do,  is  he,  because 
the  theft  is  one  of  time  and  not  of  money,— is  he  any 
the  less  a  thief  ?  The  one  gave  a  bad  shilling,  the  other 
an  imperfect  hour;  but  both  broke  the  bargain,  and 
each  is  a  thief.  In  piece-work,  which  is  what  most  of 
us  do,  the  case  is  none  the  less  plain  for  being  even  less 
material.  If  you  forge  a  bad  knife,  you  have  wasted 
some  of  mankind's  iron,  and  then,  with  unrivalled 
cynicism,  you  pocket  some  of  mankind's  money  for 
your  trouble.  Is  there  any  man  so  blind  who  cannot 
see  that  this  is  theft  ?  Again,  if  you  carelessly  cultivate 
a  farm,  you  have  been  playing  fast  and  loose  with  man- 
kind's resources  against  hunger;  there  will  be  less  bread 
in  consequence,  and  for  lack  of  that  bread  somebody 
will  die  next  winter:  a  grim  consideration.  And  you 
must  not  hope  to  shuffle  out  of  blame  because  you  got 

547 


LAY   MORALS 

less  money  for  your  less  quantity  of  bread ;  for  although 
a  theft  be  partly  punished,  it  is  none  the  less  a  theft  for 
that.  You  took  the  farm  against  competitors;  there 
were  others  ready  to  shoulder  the  responsibility  and  be 
answerable  for  the  tale  of  loaves;  but  it  was  you  who 
took  it.  By  the  act  you  came  under  a  tacit  bargain 
with  mankind  to  cultivate  that  farm  with  your  best 
endeavour;  you  were  under  no  superintendence,  you 
were  on  parole ;  and  you  have  broke  your  bargain,  and 
to  all  who  look  closely,  and  yourself  among  the  rest  if 
you  have  moral  eyesight,  you  are  a  thief.  Or  take  the 
case  of  men  of  letters.  Every  piece  of  work  which  is 
not  as  good  as  you  can  make  it,  which  you  have  palmed 
off  imperfect,  meagrely  thought,  niggardly  in  execution, 
upon  mankind  who  is  your  paymaster  on  parole  and  in 
a  sense  your  pupil,  every  hasty  or  slovenly  or  untrue 
performance,  should  rise  up  against  you  in  the  court 
of  your  own  heart  and  condemn  you  for  a  thief.  Have 
you  a  salary  ?  If  you  trifle  with  your  health,  and  so 
render  yourself  less  capable  for  duty,  and  still  touch 
and  still  greedily  pocket  the  emolument— what  are  you 
but  a  thief  ?  Have  you  double  accounts?  do  you  by  any 
time-honoured  juggle,  deceit,  or  ambiguous  process, 
gain  more  from  those  who  deal  with  you  than  if  you 
were  bargaining  and  dealing  face  to  face  in  front  of 
God  ?— What  are  you  but  a  thief  ?  Lastly,  if  you  fill  an 
office,  or  produce  an  article,  which,  in  your  heart  of 
hearts,  you  think  a  delusion  and  a  fraud  upon  mankind, 
and  still  draw  your  salary  and  go  through  the  sham 
manoeuvres  of  this  office,  or  still  book  your  profits  and 
keep  on  flooding  the  world  with  these  injurious  goods? 
—though  you  were  old,  and  bald,  and  the  first  at  church, 

548 


LAY  MORALS 

and  a  baronet,  what  are  you  but  a  thief  ?  These  may 
seem  hard  words  and  mere  curiosities  of  the  intellect, 
in  an  age  when  the  spirit  of  honesty  is  so  sparingly 
cultivated  that  all  business  is  conducted  upon  lies  and 
so-called  customs  of  the  trade,  that  not  a  man  bestows 
two  thoughts  on  the  utility  or  honourableness  of  his 
pursuit.  I  would  say  less  if  I  thought  less.  But  look- 
ing to  my  own  reason  and  the  right  of  things,  I  can 
only  avow  that  I  am  a  thief  myself,  and  that  I  passion- 
ately suspect  my  neighbours  of  the  same  guilt. 

Where  did  you  hear  that  it  was  easy  to  be  honest  ? 
Do  you  find  that  in  your  Bible  ?  Easy  ?  It  is  easy  to 
be  an  ass  and  follow  the  multitude  like  a  blind,  besotted 
bull  in  a  stampede;  and  that,  I  am  well  aware,  is  what 
you  and  Mrs.  Grundy  mean  by  being  honest.  But  it 
will  not  bear  the  stress  of  time  nor  the  scrutiny  of  con- 
science. Even  before  the  lowest  of  all  tribunals— be- 
fore a  court  of  law,  whose  business  it  is,  not  to  keep 
men  right,  or  within  a  thousand  miles  of  right,  but  to 
withhold  them  from  going  so  tragically  wrong  that  they 
will  pull  down  the  whole  jointed  fabric  of  society  by 
their  misdeeds— even  before  a  court  of  law,  as  we  begin 
to  see  in  these  last  days,  our  easy  view  of  following  at 
each  other's  tails,  alike  to  good  and  evil,  is  beginning 
to  be  reproved  and  punished,  and  declared  no  honesty 
at  all,  but  open  theft  and  swindling;  and  simpletons 
who  have  gone  on  through  life  with  a  quiet  conscience 
may  learn  suddenly,  from  the  lips  of  a  judge,  that  the 
custom  of  the  trade  may  be  a  custom  of  the  devil.  You 
thought  it  was  easy  to  be  honest.  Did  you  think  it 
was  easy  to  be  just  and  kind  and  truthful  ?  Did  you 
think  the  whole  duty  of  aspiring  man  was  as  simple 

549 


LAY   MORALS 

as  a  hornpipe  ?  and  you  could  walk  through  life  like  a 
gentleman  and  a  hero,  with  no  more  concern  than  it 
takes  to  go  to  church  or  to  address  a  circular  ?  And 
yet  all  this  time  you  had  the  eighth  commandment!  and, 
what  makes  it  richer,  you  would  not  have  broken  it  for 
the  world! 

The  truth  is,  that  these  commandments  by  them- 
selves are  of  little  use  in  private  judgment.  If  com- 
pression is  what  you  want,  you  have  their  whole  spirit 
compressed  into  the  golden  rule;  and  yet  there  ex- 
pressed with  more  significance,  since  the  law  is  there 
spiritually  and  not  materially  stated.  And  in  truth, 
four  out  of  these  ten  commands,  from  the  sixth  to  the 
ninth,  are  rather  legal  than  ethical.  The  police  court  is 
their  proper  home.  A  magistrate  cannot  tell  whether 
you  love  your  neighbour  as  yourself,  but  he  can  tell 
more  or  less  whether  you  have  murdered,  or  stolen,  or 
committed  adultery,  or  held  up  your  hand  and  testified 
to  that  which  was  not;  and  these  things,  for  rough 
practical  tests,  are  as  good  as  can  be  found.  And  per- 
haps, therefore,  the  best  condensation  of  the  Jewish 
moral  law  is  in  the  maxims  of  the  priests,  "  neminem 
laedere"  and  "suum  cuique  tribunere."  But  all  this 
granted,  it  becomes  only  the  more  plain  that  they  are 
inadequate  in  the  sphere  of  personal  morality;  that 
while  they  tell  the  magistrate  roughly  when  to  punish, 
they  can  never  direct  an  anxious  sinner  what  to  do. 

Only  Polonius,  or  the  like  solemn  sort  of  ass,  can 
offer  us  a  succinct  proverb  by  way  of  advice,  and  not 
burst  out  blushing  in  our  faces.  We  grant  them  one 
and  all,  and  for  all  that  they  are  worth ;  it  is  something 
above  and  beyond  that  we  desire.     Christ  was  in  gen- 

550 


LAY   MORALS 

eral  a  great  enemy  to  such  a  way  of  teaching;  we  rarely 
find  him  meddling  with  any  of  these  plump  commands 
but  it  was  to  open  them  out,  and  lift  his  hearers  from 
the  letter  to  the  spirit.  For  morals  are  a  personal  affair; 
in  the  war  of  righteousness  every  man  fights  for  his  own 
hand;  all  the  six  hundred  precepts  of  the  Mishna  cannot 
shake  my  private  judgment;  my  magistracy  of  myself 
is  an  indefeasible  charge,  and  my  decisions  absolute 
for  the  time  and  case.  The  moralist  is  not  a  judge  of 
appeal,  but  an  advocate  who  pleads  at  my  tribunal. 
He  has  to  show  not  the  law,  but  that  the  law  applies. 
Can  he  convince  me  ?  then  he  gains  the  cause.  And 
thus  you  find  Christ  giving  various  counsels  to  varying 
people,  and  often  jealously  careful  to  avoid  definite 
precept.  Is  he  asked,  for  example,  to  divide  a  heritage.^ 
He  refuses :  and  the  best  advice  that  he  will  offer  is  but 
a  paraphrase  of  that  tenth  commandment  which  figures 
so  strangely  among  the  rest.  Take  heed,  and  beware 
of  covetousness.  If  you  complain  that  this  is  vague,  I 
have  failed  to  carry  you  along  with  me  in  my  guar- 
ment.  For  no  definite  precept  can  be  more  than  an 
illustration,  though  its  truth  were  resplendent  like  the 
sun,  and  it  was  announced  from  heaven  by  the  voice 
of  God.  And  life  is  so  intricate  and  changing,  that 
perhaps  not  twenty  times,  or  perhaps  not  twice  in  the 
ages,  shall  we  find  that  nice  consent  of  circumstances 
to  which  alone  it  can  apply. 


55" 


CHAPTER  III 

Although  the  world  and  life  have  in  a  sense  become 
commonplace  to  our  experience,  it  is  but  in  an  external 
torpor;  the  true  sentiment  slumbers  within  us;  and  we 
have  but  to  reflect  on  ourselves  or  our  surroundings  to 
rekindle  our  astonishment.  No  length  of  habit  can 
blunt  our  first  surprise.  Of  the  world  1  have  but  little 
to  say  in  this  connection;  a  few  strokes  shall  suffice. 
We  inhabit  a  dead  ember  swimming  wide  in  the  blank 
of  space,  dizzily  spinning  as  it  swims,  and  lighted  up 
from  several  million  miles  away  by  a  more  horrible  hell- 
fire  than  was  ever  conceived  by  the  theological  imagi- 
nation. Yet  the  dead  ember  is  a  green,  commodious 
dwelling-place;  and  the  reverberation  of  this  hell-fire 
ripens  flower  and  fruit  and  mildly  warms  us  on  summer 
eves  upon  the  lawn.  Far  off  on  all  hands  other  dead 
embers,  other  flaming  suns,  wheel  and  race  in  the  ap- 
parent void;  the  nearest  is  out  of  call,  the  farthest  so 
far  that  the  heart  sickens  in  the  effort  to  conceive  the 
distance.  Shipwrecked  seamen  on  the  deep,  though 
they  bestride  but  the  truncheon  of  a  boom,  are  safe  and 
near  at  home  compared  with  mankind  on  its  bullet. 
Even  to  us  who  have  known  no  othec  it  seems  a 
strange,  if  not  an  appalling,  place  of  residence. 

But  far  stranger  is  the  resident,  man,  a  creature  com- 
pact of  wonders  that,  after  centuries  of  custom,  is  still 

552 


LAY  MORALS 

wonderful  to  himself.  He  inhabits  a  body  which  he  is 
continually  outliving,  discarding,  and  renewing.  Food 
and  sleep,  by  an  unknown  alchemy,  restore  his  spirits 
and  the  freshness  of  his  countenance.  Hair  grows  on 
him  like  grass;  his  eyes,  his  brain,  his  sinews,  thirst 
for  action;  he  joys  to  see  and  touch  and  hear,  to  par- 
take the  sun  and  wind,  to  sit  down  and  intently  ponder 
on  his  astonishing  attributes  and  situation,  to  rise  up 
and  run,  to  perform  the  strange  and  revolting  round  of 
physical  functions.  The  sight  of  a  flower,  the  note  of 
a  bird,  will  often  move  him  deeply;  yet  he  looks  un- 
concerned on  the  impassable  distances  and  portentous 
bonfires  of  the  universe.  He  comprehends,  he  designs, 
he  tames  nature,  rides  the  sea,  ploughs,  climbs  the  air 
in  a  balloon,  makes  vast  inquiries,  begins  interminable 
labours,  joins  himself  into  federations  and  populous 
cities,  spends  his  days  to  deliver  the  ends  of  the  earth 
or  to  benefit  unborn  posterity;  and  yet  knows  himself 
for  a  piece  of  unsurpassed  fragility  and  the  creature  of 
a  few  days.  His  sight,  which  conducts  him,  which 
takes  notice  of  the  farthest  stars,  which  is  miraculous 
in  every  way  and  a  thing  defying  explanation  or  belief, 
is  yet  lodged  in  a  piece  of  jelly,  and  can  be  extinguished 
with  a  touch.  His  heart,  which  all  through  life  so  in- 
domitably, so  athletically  labours,  is  but  a  capsule,  and 
may  be  stopped  with  a  pin.  His  whole  body,  for  all 
its  savage  energies,  its  leaping  and  its  winged  desires, 
may  yet  be  tamed  and  conquered  by  a  draught  of  air  or 
a  sprinkling  of  cold  dew.  What  he  calls  death,  which 
is  the  seeming  arrest  of  everything,  and  the  ruin  and 
hateful  transformation  of  the  visible  body,  lies  in  wait 
for  him  outwardly  in  a  thousand  accidents,  and  grows 

553 


LAY  MORALS 

up  in  secret  diseases  from  within.  He  is  still  learning 
to  be  a  man  when  his  faculties  are  already  beginning 
to  decline;  he  has  not  yet  understood  himself  or  his 
position  before  he  inevitably  dies.  And  yet  this  mad, 
chimerical  creature  can  take  no  thought  of  his  last  end, 
lives  as  though  he  were  eternal,  plunges  with  his  vul- 
nerable body  into  the  shock  of  war,  and  daily  affronts 
death  with  unconcern.  He  cannot  take  a  step  without 
pain  or  pleasure.  His  life  is  a  tissue  of  sensations,  which 
he  distinguishes  as  they  seem  to  come  more  directly 
from  himself  or  his  surroundings.  He  is  conscious  of 
himself  as  a  joyer  or  a  sufferer,  as  that  which  craves, 
chooses,  and  is  satisfied ;  conscious  of  his  surroundings 
as  it  were  of  an  inexhaustible  purveyor,  the  source  of 
aspects,  inspirations,  wonders,  cruel  knocks  and  trans- 
porting caresses.  Thus  he  goes  on  his  way,  stumbling 
among  delights  and  agonies. 

Matter  is  a  far-fetched  theory,  and  materialism  is 
without  a  root  in  man.  To  him  everything  is  important 
in  the  degree  to  which  it  moves  him.  The  telegraph 
wires  and  posts,  the  electricity  speeding  from  clerk  to 
clerk,  the  clerks,  the  glad  or  sorrowful  import  of  the 
message,  and  the  paper  on  which  it  is  finally  brought 
to  him  at  home,  are  all  equally  facts,  all  equally  exist 
for  man.  A  word  or  a  thought  can  wound  him  as 
acutely  as  a  knife  of  steel.  If  he  thinks  he  is  loved,  he 
will  rise  up  and  glory  to  himself,  although  he  be  in  a 
distant  land  and  short  of  necessary  bread.  Does  he 
think  he  is  not  loved  ?— he  may  have  the  woman  at  his 
beck,  and  there  is  not  a  joy  for  him  in  all  the  world. 
Indeed,  if  we  are  to  make  any  account  of  this  figment 
of  reason,  the  distinction  between  material  and  imma^ 

554 


LAY   MORALS 

terial,  we  shall  conclude  that  the  life  of  each  man  as  an 
individual  is  immaterial,  although  the  continuation  and 
prospects  of  mankind  as  a  race  turn  upon  material  con- 
ditions. The  physical  business  of  each  man's  body  is 
transacted  for  him;  like  a  Sybarite,  he  has  attentive 
valets  in  his  own  viscera;  he  breathes,  he  sweats,  he 
digests  without  an  effort,  or  so  much  as  a  consenting 
volition;  for  the  most  part  he  even  eats,  not  with  a 
wakeful  consciousness,  but  as  it  were  between  two 
thoughts.  His  life  is  centred  among  other  and  more 
important  considerations;  touch  him  in  his  honour  or 
his  love,  creatures  of  the  imagination  which  attach  him 
to  mankind  or  to  an  individual  man  or  woman;  cross 
him  in  his  piety  which  connects  his  soul  with  heaven ; 
and  he  turns  from  his  food,  he  loathes  his  breath,  and 
with  a  magnanimous  emotion  cuts  the  knots  of  his 
existence  and  frees  himself  at  a  blow  from  the  web  of 
pains  and  pleasures. 

It  follows  that  man  is  twofold  at  least;  that  he  is  not 
a  rounded  and  autonomous  empire ;  but  that  in  the  same 
body  with  him  there  dwell  other  powers,  tributary  but 
independent.  If  I  now  behold  one  walking  in  a  garden, 
curiously  coloured  and  illuminated  by  the  sun,  digest- 
ing his  food  with  elaborate  chemistry,  breathing,  cir- 
culating blood,  directing  himself  by  the  sight  of  his 
eyes,  accommodating  his  body  by  a  thousand  delicate 
balancings  to  the  wind  and  the  uneven  surface  of  the 
path,  and  all  the  time,  perhaps,  with  his  mind  engaged 
about  America,  or  the  dog-star,  or  the  attributes  of  God 
—what  am  I  to  say,  or  how  am  I  to  describe  the  thing 
I  see  ?  Is  that  truly  a  man,  in  the  rigorous  meaning  of 
the  word  ?  or  is  it  not  a  man  and  something  else ?    What, 

555 


LAY   MORALS 

then,  are  we  to  count  the  centre-bit  and  axle  of  a  being 
so  variously  compounded  ?  It  is  a  question  much  de- 
bated. Some  read  his  history  in  a  certain  intricacy  of 
nerve  and  the  success  of  successive  digestions;  others 
find  him  an  exiled  piece  of  heaven  blown  upon  and 
determined  by  the  breath  of  God ;  and  both  schools  of 
theorists  will  scream  like  scalded  children  at  a  word  of 
doubt.  Yet  either  of  these  views,  however  plausible, 
is  beside  the  question;  either  may  be  right;  and  I  care 
not;  I  ask  a  more  particular  answer,  and  to  a  more  im- 
mediate point.  What  is  the  man  ?  There  is  Something 
that  was  before  hunger  and  that  remains  behind  after  a 
meal.  It  may  or  may  not  be  engaged  in  any  given  act 
or  passion,  but  when  it  is»  it  changes,  heightens,  and 
sanctifies.  Thus  it  is  not  engaged  in  lust,  where  satis- 
faction ends  the  chapter;  and  it  is  engaged  in  love, 
where  no  satisfaction  can  blunt  the  edge  of  the  desire, 
and  where  age,  sickness,  or  alienation  may  deface  what 
was  desirable  without  diminishing  the  sentiment.  This 
something,  which  is  the  man,  is  a  permanence  which 
abides  through  the  vicissitudes  of  passion,  now  over- 
whelmed and  now  triumphant,  now  unconscious  of 
itself  in  the  immediate  distress  of  appetite  or  pain,  now 
rising  unclouded  above  all.  So,  to  the  man,  his  own 
central  self  fades  and  grows  clear  again  amid  the  tumult 
of  the  senses,  like  a  revolving  Pharos  in  the  night.  It 
is  forgotten;  it  is  hid,  it  seems,  for  ever;  and  yet  in 
the  next  calm  hour  he  shall  behold  himself  once  more, 
shining  and  unmoved  among  changes  and  storm. 

Mankind,  in  the  sense  of  the  creeping  mass  that  is 
born  and  eats,  that  generates  and  dies,  is  but  the  aggre- 
gate of  the  outer  and  lower  sides  of  man.     This  inner 

55^ 


LAY  MORALS 

consciousness,  this  lantern  alternately  obscured  and 
shining,  to  and  by  which  the  individual  exists  and  must 
order  his  conduct,  is  something  special  to  himself  and 
not  common  to  the  race.  His  joys  delight,  his  sorrows 
wound  him,  according  as  this  is  interested  or  indiffer- 
ent in  the  affair;  according  as  they  arise  in  an  imperial 
war  or  in  a  broil  conducted  by  the  tributary  chieftains 
of  the  mind.  He  may  lose  all,  and  this  not  suffer;  he 
may  lose  what  is  materially  a  trifle,  and  this  leap  in  his 
bosom  with  a  cruel  pang.  I  do  not  speak  of  it  to  har- 
dened theorists :  the  living  man  knows  keenly  what  it 
is  I  mean. 

"  Perceive  at  last  that  thou  hast  in  thee  something 
better  and  more  divine  than  the  things  which  cause  the 
various  effects,  and,  as  it  were,  pull  thee  by  the  strings. 
What  is  that  now  in  thy  mind  ?  is  it  fear,  or  suspicion, 
or  desire,  or  anything  of  that  kind  }  "  Thus  far  Marcus 
Aurelius,  in  one  of  the  most  notable  passages  in  any 
book.  Here  is  a  question  worthy  to  be  answered. 
What  is  in  thy  mind  ?  What  is  the  utterance  of  your 
inmost  self  when,  in  a  quiet  hour,  it  can  be  heard  in- 
telligibly? It  is  something  beyond  the  compass  o( 
your  thinking,  inasmuch  as  it  is  yourself;  but  is  it  not 
of  a  higher  spirit  than  you  had  dreamed  betweenwhiles,. 
and  erect  above  all  base  considerations  ?  This  soul 
seems  hardly  touched  with  our  infirmities ;  we  can  find 
in  it  certainly  no  fear,  suspicion,  or  desire;  we  are  only 
conscious— and  that  as  though  we  read  it  in  the  eyes  of 
some  one  else— of  a  great  and  unqualified  readiness. 
A  readiness  to  what  ?  to  pass  over  and  look  beyond  the 
objects  of  desire  and  fear,  for  something  else.  And 
this  something  else  ?  this  something  which  is  apart  from 

557 


LAY   MORALS 

desire  and  fear,  to  which  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world 
and  the  immediate  death  of  the  body  are  alike  indifferent 
and  beside  the  point,  and  which  yet  regards  conduct- 
by  what  name  are  we  to  call  it  ?  It  may  be  the  love  of 
God ;  or  it  may  be  an  inherited  (and  certainly  well-con- 
cealed) instinct  to  preserve  self  and  propagate  the  race ; 
I  am  not,  for  the  moment,  averse  to  either  theory ;  but 
it  will  save  time  to  call  it  righteousness.  By  so  doing 
I  intend  no  subterfuge  to  beg  a  question ;  I  am  indeed 
ready,  and  more  than  willing,  to  accept  the  rigid  con- 
sequence, and  lay  aside,  as  far  as  the  treachery  of  the 
reason  will  permit,  all  former  meanings  attached  to  the 
word  righteousness.  What  is  right  is  that  for  which  a 
man's  central  self  is  ever  ready  to  sacrifice  immediate  or 
distant  interests ;  what  is  wrong  is  what  the  central  self 
discards  or  rejects  as  incompatible  with  the  fixed  design 
of  righteousness. 

To  make  this  admission  is  to  lay  aside  all  hope  of 
definition.  That  which  is  right  upon  this  theory  is 
intimately  dictated  to  each  man  by  himself,  but  can 
never  be  rigorously  set  forth  in  language,  and  never, 
above  all,  imposed  upon  another.  The  conscience  has, 
then,  a  vision  like  that  of  the  eyes,  which  is  incom- 
municable, and  for  the  most  part  illuminates  none  but 
its  possessor.  When  many  people  perceive  the  same 
or  any  cognate  facts,  they  agree  upon  a  word  as  sym- 
bol; and  hence  we  have  such  words  as  tree^  star,  love^ 
honour,  or  death;  hence  also  we  have  this  word  right, 
which,  like  the  others,  we  all  understand,  most  of  us 
understand  differently,  and  none  can  express  succinctly 
otherwise.  Yet  even  on  the  straitest  view,  we  can 
make  some  steps  towards  comprehension  of  our  own 

558 


LAY  MORALS 

superior  thoughts.  For  it  is  an  incredible  and  most 
bewildering  fact  that  a  man,  through  life,  is  on  variable 
terms  with  himself;  he  is  aware  of  tiffs  and  reconcilia 
tions;  the  intimacy  is  at  times  almost  suspended,  at 
times  it  is  renewed  again  with  joy.  As  we  said  before, 
his  inner  self  or  soul  appears  to  him  by  successive  revela» 
tions,  and  is  frequently  obscured.  It  is  from  a  study 
of  these  alternations  that  we  can  alone  hope  to  discover, 
even  dimly,  what  seems  right  and  what  seems  wrong 
to  this  veiled  prophet  of  ourself. 

All  that  is  in  the  man  in  the  larger  sense,  what  we 
call  impression  as  well  as  what  we  call  intuition,  so  far 
as  my  argument  looks,  we  must  accept.  It  is  not  wrong 
to  desire  food,  or  exercise,  or  beautiful  surroundings, 
or  the  love  of  sex,  or  interest  which  is  the  food  of  the 
mind.  All  these  are  craved ;  all  these  should  be  craved ; 
to  none  of  these  in  itself  does  the  soul  demur;  where 
there  comes  an  undeniable  want,  we  recognise  a  demand 
of  nature.  Yet  we  know  that  these  natural  demands 
may  be  superseded ;  for  the  demands  which  are  com- 
mon to  mankind  make  but  a  shadowy  consideration  in 
comparison  to  the  demands  of  the  individual  soul.  Food 
is  almost  the  first  prerequisite ;  and  yet  a  high  character 
will  go  without  food  to  the  ruin  and  death  of  the  body 
rather  than  gain  it  in  a  manner  which  the  spirit  disa- 
vows. Pascal  laid  aside  mathematics ;  Origen  doctored 
his  body  with  a  knife;  every  day  some  one  is  thus 
mortifying  his  dearest  interests  and  desires,  and,  in 
Christ's  words,  entering  maim  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  This  is  to  supersede  the  lesser  and  less  har- 
monious affections  by  renunciation ;  and  though  by  this 
ascetic  path  we  may  get  to  heaven,  we  cannot  get  thither 

559 


LAY  MORALS 

a  whole  and  perfect  man.  But  there  is  another  way, 
to  supersede  them  by  reconciliation,  in  which  the  soul 
and  all  the  faculties  and  senses  pursue  a  common  route 
and  share  in  one  desire.  Thus,  man  is  tormented  by  a 
very  imperious  physical  desire;  it  spoils  his  rest,  it  is 
not  to  be  denied;  the  doctors  will  tell  you,  not  I,  how 
it  is  a  physical  need,  like  the  want  of  food  or  slumber. 
In  the  satisfaction  of  this  desire,  as  it  first  appears,  the 
soul  sparingly  takes  part;  nay,  it  oft  unsparingly  regrets 
and  disapproves  the  satisfaction.  But  let  the  man  learn 
to  love  a  woman  as  far  as  he  is  capable  of  love;  and  for 
this  random  affection  of  the  body  there  is  substituted  a 
steady  determination,  a  consent  of  all  his  powers  and 
faculties,  which  supersedes,  adopts,  and  commands  the 
other.  The  desire  survives,  strengthened,  perhaps, 
but  taught  obedience,  and  changed  in  scope  and  char- 
acter. Life  is  no  longer  a  tale  of  betrayals  and  regrets ; 
for  the  man  now  lives  as  a  whole;  his  consciousness 
now  moves  on  uninterrupted  like  a  river;  through  all 
the  extremes  and  ups  and  downs  of  passion,  he  remains 
approvingly  conscious  of  himself. 

Now  to  me,  this  seems  a  type  of  that  rightness  which 
the  soul  demands.  It  demands  that  we  shall  not  live 
alternately  with  our  opposing  tendencies  in  continual 
seesaw  of  passion  and  disgust,  but  seek  some  path  on 
which  the  tendencies  shall  no  longer  oppose,  but  serve 
each  other  to  a  common  end.  It  demands  that  we  shall 
not  pursue  broken  ends,  but  great  and  comprehensive 
purposes,  in  which  soul  and  body  may  unite  like  notes 
in  a  harmonious  chord.  That  were  indeed  a  way  of 
peace  and  pleasure,  that  were  indeed  a  heaven  upon 
earth.     It  does  not  demand,  however,  or,  to  speak  in 

560 


LAY   MORALS 

measure,  it  does  not  demand  of  me,  that  I  should  starve 
my  appetites  for  no  purpose  under  heaven  but  as  a  pur- 
pose in  itself;  or,  in  a  weak  despair,  pluck  out  the  eye 
that  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  guide  and  enjoy  with 
wisdom.  The  soul  demands  unity  of  purpose,  not 
the  dismemberment  of  man;  it  seeks  to  roll  up  all  his 
strength  and  sweetness,  all  his  passion  and  wisdom, 
into  onej  and  make  of  him  a  perfect  man  exulting  in 
perfection.  To  conclude  ascetically  is  to  give  up,  and 
not  to  solve,  the  problem.  The  ascetic  and  the  creeping 
hog,  although  they  are  at  different  poles,  have  equally 
failed  in  life.  The  one  has  sacrificed  his  crew;  the 
other  brings  back  his  seamen  in  a  cock-boat,  and  has 
lost  the  ship.  I  believe  there  are  not  many  sea-captains 
who  would  plume  themselves  on  either  result  as  a 
success. 

But  if  it  is  righteousness  thus  to  fuse  together  our 
divisive  impulses  and  march  with  one  mind  through 
life,  there  is  plainly  one  thing  more  unrighteous  than 
all  others,  and  one  declension  which  is  irretrievable  and 
draws  on  the  rest.  And  this  is  to  lose  consciousness 
of  oneself.  In  the  best  of  times,  it  is  but  by  flashes, 
when  our  whole  nature  is  clear^  strong,  and  conscious, 
and  events  conspire  to  leave  us  free,  that  we  enjoy 
communion  with  our  soul.  At  the  worst,  we  are  so 
fallen  and  passive  that  we  may  say  shortly  we  have 
none.  An  arctic  torpor  seizes  upon  men.  Although 
built  of  nerves,  and  set  adrift  in  a  stimulating  world, 
they  develop  a  tendency  to  go  bodily  to  sleep;  con- 
sciousness becomes  engrossed  among  the  reflex  and 
mechanical  parts  of  life,  and  soon  loses  both  the  will 
and  power  to  look  higher  considerations  in  the  face. 

561 


LAY  MORALS 

This  is  ruin;  this  is  the  last  failure  in  life;  this  is  tem- 
poral damnation,  damnation  on  the  spot  and  without 
the  form  of  judgment.  "  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if 
he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  himself?" 

It  is  to  keep  a  man  awake,  to  keep  him  alive  to  his 
own  soul  and  its  fixed  design  of  righteousness,  that  the 
better  part  of  moral  and  religious  education  is  directed ; 
not  only  that  of  words  and  doctors,  but  the  sharp  ferule 
of  calamity  under  which  we  are  all  God's  scholars  till 
we  die.  If,  as  teachers,  we  are  to  say  anything  to  the 
purpose,  we  must  say  what  will  remind  the  pupil  of 
his  soul;  we  must  speak  that  soul's  dialect;  we  must 
talk  of  life  and  conduct  as  his  soul  would  have  him 
think  of  them.  If,  from  some  conformity  between  us 
and  the  pupil,  or  perhaps  among  all  men,  we  do  in  truth 
speak  in  such  a  dialect  and  express  such  views,  beyond 
question  we  shall  touch  in  him  a  spring;  beyond  ques- 
tion he  will  recognise  the  dialect  as  one  that  he  him- 
self has  spoken  in  his  better  hours;  beyond  question  he 
will  cry,  "  I  had  forgotten,  but  now  I  remember;  I  too 
have  eyes,  and  I  had  forgot  to  use  them !  I  too  have  a 
soul  of  my  own,  arrogantly  upright,  and  to  that  I  will 
listen  and  conform."  In  short,  say  to  him  anything 
that  he  has  once  thought,  or  been  upon  the  point  of 
thinking,  or  show  him  any  view  of  life  that  he  has  once 
clearly  seen,  or  been  upon  the  point  of  clearly  seeing; 
and  you  have  done  your  part  and  may  leave  him  to 
complete  the  education  for  himself. 

Now  the  view  taught  at  the  present  time  seems  to 
me  to  want  greatness;  and  the  dialect  in  which  alone 
it  can  be  intelligibly  uttered  is  not  the  dialect  of  my 
soul.     It  is  a  sort  of  postponement  of  life;   nothing 

562 


LAY  MORALS 

quite  is,  but  something  different  is  to  be;  we  are  to 
keep  our  eyes  upon  the  indirect  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave.  We  are  to  regulate  our  conduct  not  by  desire, 
but  by  a  politic  eye  upon  the  future ;  and  to  value  acts 
as  they  will  bring  us  money  or  good  opinion;  as  they 
will  bring  us,  in  one  word,  profit.  We  must  be  what 
is  called  respectable,  and  offend  no  one  by  our  carriage; 
it  will  not  do  to  make  oneself  conspicuous— who  knows? 
even  in  virtue?  says  the  Christian  parent !  And  we  must 
be  what  is  called  prudent  and  make  money;  not  only 
because  it  is  pleasant  to  have  money,  but  because  that 
also  is  a  part  of  respectability,  and  we  cannot  hope  to 
be  received  in  society  without  decent  possessions. 
Received  in  society!  as  if  that  were  the  kingdom  of 
heaven!  There  is  dear  Mr.  So-and-so;— look  at  him! 
—so  much  respected— so  much  looked  up  to— quite  the 
Christian  merchant!  And  we  must  cut  our  conduct  as 
strictly  as  possible  after  the  pattern  of  Mr„  So-and-so ; 
and  lay  our  whole  lives  to  make  money  and  be  strictly 
decent.  Besides  these  holy  injunctions,  which  form  by 
far  the  greater  part  of  a  youth's  training  in  our  Christian 
homes,  there  are  at  least  two  other  doctrines.  We  are 
to  live  just  now  as  well  as  we  can,  but  scrape  at  last 
into  heaven,  where  we  shall  be  good.  We  are  to 
worry  through  the  week  in  a  lay,  disreputable  way, 
but,  to  make  matters  square,  live  a  different  life  on 
Sunday. 

The  train  of  thought  we  have  been  following  gives 
us  a  key  to  all  these  positions,  without  stepping  aside 
to  justify  them  on  their  own  ground.  It  is  because  we 
have  been  disgusted  fifty  times  with  physical  squalls, 
and  fifty  times  torn  between  conflicting  impulses,  that 

5^y 


LAY   MORALS 

we  teach  people  this  indirect  and  tactical  procedure  in 
life,  and  to  judge  by  remote  consequences  instead  of 
the  immediate  face  of  things.  The  very  desire  to  act 
as  our  own  souls  would  have  us,  coupled  with  a  pathetic 
disbelief  in  ourselves,  moves  us  to  follow  the  example 
of  others ;  perhaps,  who  knows  ?  they  may  be  on  the 
right  track;  and  the  more  our  patterns  are  in  number, 
the  better  seems  the  chance;  until,  if  we  be  acting  in 
concert  with  a  whole  civilised  nation,  there  are  surely 
a  majority  of  chances  that  we  must  be  acting  right. 
And  again,  how  true  it  is  that  we  can  never  behave  as 
we  wish  in  this  tormented  sphere,  and  can  only  aspire 
to  different  and  more  favourable  circumstances,  in  order 
to  stand  out  and  be  ourselves  wholly  and  rightly !  And 
yet  once  more,  if  in  the  hurry  and  pressure  of  affairs 
and  passions  you  tend  to  nod  and  become  drowsy, 
here  are  twenty-four  hours  of  Sunday  set  apart  for  you 
to  hold  counsel  with  your  soul  and  look  around  you  on 
the  possibilities  of  life. 

This  is  not,  of  course,  all  that  is  to  be,  or  even  should 
be,  said  for  these  doctrines.  Only,  in  the  course  of  this 
chapter,  the  reader  and  I  have  agreed  upon  a  few  catch- 
words, and  been  looking  at  morals  on  a  certain  system ; 
it  was  a  pity  to  lose  an  opportunity  of  testing  the 
catchwords,  and  seeing  whether,  by  this  system  as 
well  as  by  others,  current  doctrines  could  show  any 
probable  justification.  If  the  doctrines  had  come  too 
badly  out  of  the  trial,  it  would  have  condemned  the 
system.  Our  sight  of  the  world  is  very  narrow;  the 
mind  but  a  pedestrian  instrument;  there  's  nothing  new 
under  the  sun,  as  Solomon  says,  except  the  man  him- 
self; and  though  that  changes  the  aspect  of  everything 

564 


LAY  MORALS 

else,  yet  he  must  see  the  same  things  as  other  people, 
only  from  a  different  side. 

And  now,  having  admitted  so  much,  let  us  turn  to 
criticism. 

If  you  teach  a  man  to  keep  his  eyes  upon  what  others 
think  of  him,  unthinkingly  to  lead  the  life  and  hold  the 
principles  of  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries,  you 
must  discredit  in  his  eyes  the  one  authoritative  voice 
of  his  own  soul.  He  may  be  a  docile  citizen ;  he  will 
never  be  a  man.  It  is  ours,  on  the  other  hand,  to  dis- 
regard this  babble  and  chattering  of  other  men  better 
and  worse  than  we  are,  and  to  walk  straight  before  us 
by  what  light  we  have.  They  may  be  right ;  but  so, 
before  heaven,  are  we.  They  may  know ;  but  we  know 
also,  and  by  that  knowledge  we  must  stand  or  fall. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  loyalty  to  a  man's  own  better 
self;  and  from  those  who  have  not  that,  God  help  me, 
how  am  I  to  look  for  loyalty  to  others  ?  The  most  dull, 
the  most  imbecile,  at  a  certain  moment  turn  round,  at 
a  certain  point  will  hear  no  further  argument,  but  stand 
unflinching  by  their  own  dumb,  irrational  sense  of  right. 
It  is  not  only  by  steel  or  fire,  but  through  contempt  and 
blame,  that  the  martyr  fulfils  the  calling  of  his  dear 
soul.  Be  glad  if  you  are  not  tried  by  such  extremities. 
But  although  all  the  world  ranged  themselves  in  one 
line  to  tell  you  "This  is  wrong,"  be  you  your  own 
faithful  vassal  and  the  ambassador  of  God— throw  down 
the  glove  and  answer,  "This  is  right."  Do  you  think 
you  are  only  declaring  yourself  ?  Perhaps  in  some  dim 
)way,  like  a  child  who  delivers  a  message  not  fully 
^  understood,  you  are  opening  wider  the  straits  of  pre- 
judice and  preparing  mankind  for  some  truer  and  more 

565 


LAY   MORALS 

spiritual  grasp  of  truth ;  perhaps,  as  you  stand  forth  for 
your  own  judgment,  you  are  covering  a  thousand  weak 
ones  with  your  body ;  perhaps,  by  this  declaration  alone, 
you  have  avoided  the  guilt  of  false  witness  against  hu- 
manity and  the  little  ones  unborn.  It  is  good,  I  believe, 
to  be  respectable,  but  much  nobler  to  respect  oneself 
and  utter  the  voice  of  God.  God,  if  there  be  any  God, 
speaks  daily  in  a  new  language  by  the  tongues  of  men; 
the  thoughts  and  habits  of  each  fresh  generation  and 
each  new-coined  spirit  throw  another  light  upon  the 
universe  and  contain  another  commentary  on  the  printed 
Bibles;  every  scruple,  every  true  dissent,  every  glimpse 
of  something  new,  is  a  letter  of  God's  alphabet;  and 
though  there  is  a  grave  responsibility  for  all  who  speak, 
is  there  none  for  those  who  unrighteously  keep  silence 
and  conform  ?  Is  not  that  also  to  conceal  and  cloak 
God's  counsel  ?  And  how  should  we  regard  the  man 
of  science  who  suppressed  all  facts  that  would  not 
tally  with  the  orthodoxy  of  the  hour  ? 

Wrong  ?  You  are  as  surely  wrong  as  the  sun  rose 
this  morning  round  the  revolving  shoulder  of  the  world. 
Not  truth,  but  truthfulness,  is  the  good  of  your  en- 
deavour. For  when  will  men  receive  that  first  part  and 
prerequisite  of  truth,  that,  by  the  order  of  things,  by 
the  greatness  of  the  universe,  by  the  darkness  and  par- 
tiality of  man's  experience,  by  the  inviolate  secrecy  of 
God,  kept  close  in  His  most  open  revelations,  every 
man  is,  and  to  the  end  of  the  ages  must  be,  wrong  ? 
Wrong  to  the  universe;  wrong  to  mankind;  wrong  to 
God.  And  yet  in  another  sense,  and  that  plainer  and 
nearer,  every  man  of  men,  who  wishes  truly,  must  be 
right.     He  is  right  to  himself,  and  in  the  measure  of 

^66 


LAY  MORALS 

his  sagacity  and  candour.  That  let  him  do  in  all  sin- 
cerity and  zeal,  not  sparing  a  thought  for  contrary 
opinions ;  that,  for  what  it  is  worth,  let  him  proclaim. 
Be  not  afraid;  although  he  be  wrong,  so  also  is  the 
dead,  stuffed  Dagon  he  insults.  For  the  voice  of  God, 
whatever  it  is,  is  not  that  stammering,  inept  tradition 
which  the  people  holds.  These  truths  survive  in  trav- 
esty, swamped  in  a  world  of  spiritual  darkness  and 
confusion;  and  what  a  few  comprehend  and  faithfully 
hold,  the  many,  in  their  dead  jargon,  repeat,  degrade, 
and  misinterpret. 

So  far  of  Respectability :  what  the  Covenanters  used 
to  call  "  rank  conformity  " :  the  deadliest  gag  and  wet 
blanket  that  can  be  laid  on  men.  And  now  of  Profit. 
And  this  doctrine  is  perhaps  the  more  redoubtable,  be- 
cause it  harms  all  sorts  of  men ;  not  only  the  heroic  and 
self-reliant,  but  the  obedient,  cowlike  squadrons.  A 
man,  by  this  doctrine,  looks  to  consequences  at  the 
second,  or  third,  or  fiftieth  turn.  He  chooses  his  end, 
and  for  that,  with  wily  turns  and  through  a  great  sea  of 
tedium,  steers  this  mortal  bark.  There  may  be  political 
wisdom  in  such  a  view ;  but  I  am  persuaded  there  can 
spring  no  great  moral  zeal.  To  look  thus  obliquely 
upon  life  is  the  very  recipe  for  moral  slumber.  Our 
intention  and  endeavour  should  be  directed,  not  on 
some  vague  end  of  money  or  applause,  which  shall 
come  to  us  by  a  ricochet  in  a  month  or  a  year,  or  twenty 
years,  but  on  the  act  itself;  not  on  the  approval  of  others, 
but  on  the  rightness  of  that  act.  At  every  instant,  at 
every  step  in  life,  the  point  has  to  be  decided,  our  soul 
has  to  be  saved,  heaven  has  to  be  gained  or  lost.  At 
every  step  our  spirits  must  applaud,  at  every  step  we 

567 


LAY  MORALS 

must  set  down  the  foot  and  sound  the  trumpet.  "  This 
have  1  done,"  we  must  say;  "  right  or  wrong,  this  have 
I  done,  in  unfeigned  honour  of  intention,  as  to  myself 
and  God."  The  profit  of  every  act  should  be  this,  that 
it  was  right  for  us  to  do  it.  Any  other  profit  than  that, 
if  it  involved  a  kingdom  or  the  woman  I  love,  ought,  if 
I  were  God's  upright  soldier,  to  leave  me  untempted. 

It  is  the  mark  of  what  we  call  a  righteous  decision, 
that  it  is  made  directly  and  for  its  own  sake.  The 
whole  man,  mind  and  body,  having  come  to  an  agree- 
ment, tyrannically  dictates  conduct.  There  are  two 
dispositions  eternally  opposed :  that  in  which  we  recog- 
nise that  one  thing  is  wrong  and  another  right,  and  that 
in  which,  not  seeing  any  clear  distinction,  we  fall  back 
on  the  consideration  of  consequences.  The  truth  is,  by 
the  scope  of  our  present  teaching,  nothing  is  thought 
very  wrong  and  nothing  very  right,  except  a  few  ac- 
tions which  have  the  disadvantage  of  being  disrespect- 
able  when  found  out;  the  more  serious  part  of  men 
inclining  to  think  all  things  rather  wrong,  the  more 
jovial  to  suppose  them  right  enough  for  practical  pur- 
poses. I  will  engage  my  head,  they  do  not  find  that 
view  in  their  own  hearts;  they  have  taken  it  up  in  a 
dark  despair;  they  are  but  troubled  sleepers  talking  in 
their  sleep.  The  soul,  or  my  soul  at  least,  thinks  very 
distinctly  upon  many  points  of  right  and  wrong,  and 
often  differs  flatly  with  what  is  held  out  as  the  thought 
of  corporate  humanity  in  the  code  of  society  or  the  code 
of  law.  Am  I  to  suppose  myself  a  monster  ?  I  have 
only  to  read  books,  the  Christian  Gospels  for  example, 
to  think  myself  a  monster  no  longer;  and  instead  I  think 
the  mass  of  people  are  merely  sneaking  in  their  sleep. 

568 


LAY  MORALS 

It  is  a  commonplace,  enshrined,  if  I  mistake  not,  even 
in  school  copy-books,  that  honour  is  to  be  sought  and 
not  fame.  1  ask  no  other  admission;  we  are  to  seek 
honour,  upright  walking  with  our  own  conscience  every 
hour  of  the  day,  and  not  fame,  the  consequence,  the 
far-off  reverberation  of  our  footsteps.  The  walk,  not 
the  rumour  of  the  walk,  is  what  concerns  righteous- 
ness. Better  disrespectable  honour  than  dishonourable 
fame.  Better  useless  or  seemingly  hurtful  honour, 
than  dishonour  ruling  empires  and  filling  the  mouths  of 
thousands.  For  the  man  must  walk  by  what  he  sees, 
and  leave  the  issue  with  God  who  made  him  and  taught 
him  by  the  fortune  of  his  life.  You  would  not  dis- 
honour yourself  for  money;  which  is  at  least  tangible; 
would  you  do  it,  then,  for  a  doubtful  forecast  in  poli- 
tics, or  another  person's  theory  in  morals  ? 

So  intricate  is  the  scheme  of  our  affairs,  that  no  man 
can  calculate  the  bearing  of  his  own  behaviour  even  on 
those  immediately  around  him,  how  much  less  upon 
the  world  at  large  or  on  succeeding  generations !  To 
walk  by  external  prudence  and  the  rule  of  consequences 
would  require,  not  a  man,  but  God.  All  that  we  know 
to  guide  us  in  this  changing  labyrinth  is  our  soul  with 
its  fixed  design  of  righteousness,  and  a  few  old  pre- 
cepts which  commend  themselves  to  that.  The  pre- 
cepts are  vague  when  we  endeavour  to  apply  them; 
consequences  are  more  entangled  than  a  wisp  of  string, 
and  their  confusion  is  unrestingly  in  change;  we  must 
hold  to  what  we  know  and  walk  by  it.  We  must 
walk  by  faith,  indeed,  and  not  by  knowledge. 

You  do  not  love  another  because  he  is  wealthy  or  wise 
or  eminently  respectable:  you  love  him  because  you 

569 


LAY  MORALS 

love  him;  that  is  love,  and  any  other  only  a  derision 
and  grimace.  It  should  be  the  same  with  all  our  ac- 
tions. If  we  were  to  conceive  a  perfect  man,  it  should 
be  one  who  was  never  torn  between  conflicting  impulses, 
but  who,  on  the  absolute  consent  of  all  his  parts  and 
faculties,  submitted  in  every  action  of  his  life  to  a  self- 
dictation  as  absolute  and  unreasoned  as  that  which  bids 
him  love  one  woman  and  be  true  to  her  till  death.  But 
we  should  not  conceive  him  as  sagacious,  ascetical, 
playing  off  his  appetites  against  each  other,  turning  the 
wing  of  public  respectable  immorality  instead  of  riding 
it  directly  down,  or  advancing  towards  his  end  through 
a  thousand  sinister  compromises  and  considerations. 
The  one  man  might  be  wily,  might  be  adroit,  might  be 
wise,  might  be  respectable,  might  be  gloriously  useful; 
it  is  the  other  man  who  would  be  good. 

The  soul  asks  honour  and  not  fame;  to  be  upright, 
not  to  be  successful;  to  be  good,  not  prosperous;  to 
be  essentially,  not  outwardly,  respectable.  Does  your 
soul  ask  profit  ?  Does  it  ask  money  ?  Does  it  ask  the 
approval  of  the  indifferent  herd  ?  I  believe  not.  For 
my  own  part,  1  want  but  little  money,  I  hope;  and  I 
do  not  want  to  be  decent  at  all,  but  to  be  good. 


570 


CHAPTER  IV 

We  have  spoken  of  that  supreme  self-dictation  which 
keeps  varying  from  hour  to  hour  in  its  dictates  with 
the  variation  of  events  and  circumstances.  Now,  for 
us,  that  is  ultimate.  It  may  be  founded  on  some  rea- 
sonable process,  but  it  is  not  a  process  which  we  can 
follow  or  comprehend.  And  moreover  the  dictation  is 
not  continuous,  or  not  continuous  except  in  very  lively 
and  well-living  natures;  and  betweenwhiles  we  must 
brush  along  without  it.  Practice  is  a  more  intricate 
and  desperate  business  than  the  toughest  theorising; 
life  is  an  affair  of  cavalry,  where  rapid  judgment  and 
prompt  action  are  alone  possible  and  right.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  there  is  no  one  so  upright  but  he  is  influenced 
by  the  world's  chatter;  and  no  one  so  headlong  but  he 
requires  to  consider  consequences  and  to  keep  an  eye 
on  profit.  For  the  soul  adopts  all  affections  and  appe- 
tites without  exception,  and  cares  only  to  combine  them 
for  some  common  purpose  which  shall  interest  all. 
Now  respect  for  the  opinion  of  others,  the  study  of 
consequences  and  the  desire  of  power  and  comfort,  are 
all  undeniably  factors  in  the  nature  of  man;  and  the 
more  undeniably  since  we  find  that,  in  our  current  doc- 
trines, they  have  swallowed  up  the  others  and  are 
thought  to  conclude  in  themselves  all  the  worthy  parts 
of  man.     These,  then,  must  also  be  suffered  to  affect 

57« 


LAY   MORALS 

conduct  in  the  practical  domain,  much  or  little  accord- 
ing as  they  are  forcibly  or  feebly  present  to  the  mind 
of  each. 

Now  a  man's  view  of  the  universe  is  mostly  a  view 
of  the  civilised  society  in  which  he  lives.  Other  men 
and  women  are  so  much  more  grossly  and  so  much 
more  intimately  palpable  to  his  perceptions,  that  they 
stand  between  him  and  all  the  rest;  they  are  larger  to 
his  eye  than  the  sun,  he  hears  them  more  plainly  than 
thunder;  with  them,  by  them,  and  for  them,  he  must 
live  and  die.  And  hence  the  laws  that  affect  his  inter- 
course with  his  fellow-men,  although  merely  customary 
and  the  creatures  of  a  generation,  are  more  clearly  and 
continually  before  his  mind  than  those  which  bind  him 
into  the  eternal  system  of  things,  support  him  in  his 
upright  progress  on  this  whirling  ball,  or  keep  up  the 
fire  of  his  bodily  life.  And  hence  it  is  that  money 
stands  in  the  first  rank  of  considerations  and  so  power- 
fully affects  the  choice.  For  our  society  is  built  with 
money  for  mortar;  money  is  present  in  every  joint  of 
circumstance;  it  might  be  named  the  social  atmosphere, 
since,  in  society,  it  is  by  that  alone  that  men  continue 
to  live,  and  only  through  that  or  chance  that  they  can 
reach  or  affect  one  another.  Money  gives  us  food, 
shelter,  and  privacy ;  it  permits  us  to  be  clean  in  person, 
opens  for  us  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  gains  us  books  for 
study  or  pleasure,  enables  us  to  help  the  distresses  of 
others,  and  puts  us  above  necessity  so  that  we  can 
choose  the  best  in  life.  If  we  love,  it  enables  us  to 
meet  and  live  with  the  loved  one,  or  even  to  prolong  her 
health  and  life;  if  we  have  scruples,  it  gives  us  an  op- 
portunity to  be  honest;  if  we  have  any  bright  designs, 

572 


LAY   MORALS 

here  is  what  will  smooth  the  way  to  their  accomplish- 
ment. Penury  is  the  worst  slavery,  and  will  soon  lead 
to  death. 

But  money  is  only  a  means;  it  presupposes  a  man 
to  use  it.  The  rich  can  go  where  he  pleases,  but  per- 
haps please  himself  nowhere.  He  can  buy  a  library 
or  visit  the  whole  world,  but  perhaps  has  neither  pa- 
tience to  read  nor  intelligence  to  see.  The  table  may 
be  loaded,  and  the  appetite  wanting;  the  purse  may  be 
full,  and  the  heart  empty.  He  may  have  gained  the 
world  and  lost  himself;  and  with  all  his  wealth  around 
him,  in  a  great  house  and  spacious  and  beautiful  de- 
mesne, he  may  live  as  blank  a  life  as  any  tattered 
ditcher.  Without  an  appetite,  without  an  aspiration, 
void  of  appreciation,  bankrupt  of  desire  and  hope, 
there,  in  his  great  house,  let  him  sit  and  look  upon  his 
fingers.  It  is  perhaps  a  more  fortunate  destiny  to  have 
a  taste  for  collecting  shells  than  to  be  born  a  millionaire. 
Although  neither  is  to  be  despised,  it  is  always  better 
policy  to  learn  an  interest  than  to  make  a  thousand 
pounds;  for  the  money  will  soon  be  spent,  or  perhaps 
you  may  feel  no  joy  in  spending  it;  but  the  interest 
remains  imperishable  and  ever  new.  To  become  a 
botanist,  a  geologist,  a  social  philosopher,  an  antiquary, 
or  an  artist,  is  to  enlarge  one's  possessions  in  the  uni- 
verse by  an  incalculably  higher  degree,  and  by  a  far 
surer  sort  of  property,  than  to  purchase  a  farm  of  many 
acres.  You  had  perhaps  two  thousand  a  year  before 
the  transaction;  perhaps  you  have  two  thousand  five 
hundred  after  it.  That  represents  your  gain  in  the  one 
case.  But  in  the  other,  you  have  thrown  down  a  bar- 
rier which  concealed  significance  and  beauty.    The  blind 

573 


LAY   MORALS 

man  has  learned  to  see.  The  prisoner  has  opened  up  a 
window  in  his  cell  and  beholds  enchanting  prospects ; 
he  will  never  again  be  a  prisoner  as  he  was;  he  can 
watch  clouds  and  changing  seasons,  ships  on  the  river, 
travellers  on  the  road,  and  the  stars  at  night;  happy 
prisoner!  his  eyes  have  broken  jail !  And  again  he  who 
has  learned  to  love  an  art  or  science  has  wisely  laid  up 
riches  against  the  day  of  riches ;  if  prosperity  come,  he 
will  not  enter  poor  into  his  inheritance;  he  will  not 
slumber  and  forget  himself  in  the  lap  of  money,  or 
spend  his  hours  in  counting  idle  treasures,  but  be  up 
and  briskly  doing;  he  will  have  the  true  alchemic 
touch,  which  is  not  that  of  Midas,  but  which  transmutes 
dead  money  into  living  delight  and  satisfaction.  Eire 
et  pas  avoir— Xo  be,  not  to  possess— that  is  the  problem 
of  life.  To  be  wealthy,  a  rich  nature  is  the  first  re- 
quisite and  money  but  the  second.  To  be  of  a  quick 
and  healthy  blood,  to  share  in  all  honourable  curiosities, 
to  be  rich  in  admiration  and  free  from  envy,  to  rejoice 
greatly  in  the  good  of  others,  to  love  with  such  gen- 
erosity of  heart  that  your  love  is  still  a  dear  possession 
in  absence  or  unkindness— these  are  the  gifts  of  fortune 
which  money  cannot  buy  and  without  which  money 
can  buy  nothing.  For  what  can  a  man  possess,  or  what 
can  he  enjoy,  except  himself  ?  If  he  enlarge  his  nature, 
it  is  then  that  he  enlarges  his  estates.  If  his  nature  be 
happy  and  valiant,  he  will  enjoy  the  universe  as  if  it 
were  his  park  and  orchard. 

But  money  is  not  only  to  be  spent;  it  has  also  to  be 
earned.  It  is  not  merely  a  convenience  or  a  necessary 
in  social  life ;  but  it  is  the  coin  in  which  mankind  pays 
his  wages  to  the  individual  man.     And  from  this  side, 

574 


LAY  MORALS 

the  question  of  money  has  a  very  different  scope  and 
application.  For  no  man  can  be  honest  who  does  not 
work.  Service  for  service.  If  the  farmer  buys  corn, 
and  the  labourer  ploughs  and  reaps,  and  the  baker 
sweats  in  his  hot  bakery,  plainly  you  who  eat  must  do 
something  in  your  turn.  It  is  not  enough  to  take  off 
your  hat,  or  to  thank  God  upon  your  knees  for  the 
admirable  constitution  of  society  and  your  own  con- 
venient situation  in  its  upper  and  more  ornamental 
stories.  Neither  is  it  enough  to  buy  the  loaf  with  a 
sixpence;  for  then  you  are  only  changing  the  point  of 
the  inquiry ;  and  you  must  first  have  bought  the  sixpence. 
Service  for  service:  how  have  you  bought  your  six- 
pences ?  A  man  of  spirit  desires  certainty  in  a  thing  of 
such  a  nature;  he  must  see  to  it  that  there  is  some 
reciprocity  between  him  and  mankind;  that  he  pays  his 
expenditure  in  service;  that  he  has  not  a  lion's  share  in 
profit  and  a  drone's  in  labour;  and  is  not  a  sleeping 
partner  and  mere  costly  incubus  on  the  great  mercantile 
concern  of  mankind. 

Services  differ  so  widely  with  different  gifts,  and 
some  are  so  inappreciable  to  external  tests,  that  this  is 
not  only  a  matter  for  the  private  conscience,  but  one 
which  even  there  must  be  leniently  and  trustfully  con- 
sidered. For  remember  how  many  serve  mankind  who 
do  no  more  than  meditate;  and  how  many  are  precious 
to  their  friends  for  no  more  than  a  sweet  and  joyous 
temper.  To  perform  the  function  of  a  man  of  letters  it 
is  not  necessary  to  write;  nay,  it  is  perhaps  better  to  be 
a  living  book.  So  long  as  we  love  we  serve;  so  long  as 
we  are  loved  by  others,  I  would  almost  say  that  we  are 
indispensable;  and  no  man  is  useless  while  he  has  a 

575 


LAY   MORALS 

friend.  The  true  services  of  life  are  inestimable  in 
money,  and  are  never  paid.  Kind  words  and  caresses, 
high  and  wise  thoughts,  humane  designs,  tender  be- 
haviour to  the  weak  and  suffering,  and  all  the  charities 
of  man's  existence,  are  neither  bought  nor  sold. 

Yet  the  dearest  and  readiest,  if  not  the  most  just, 
criterion  of  a  man's  services,  is  the  wage  that  mankind 
pays  him  or,  briefly,  what  he  earns.  There  at  least 
there  can  be  no  ambiguity.  St.  Paul  is  fully  and  freely 
entitled  to  his  earnings  as  a  tent-maker,  and  Socrates 
fully  and  freely  entitled  to  his  earnings  as  a  sculptor, 
although  the  true  business  of  each  was  not  only  some- 
thing different,  but  something  which  remained  unpaid. 
A  man  cannot  forget  that  he  is  not  superintended,  and 
serves  mankind  on  parole.  He  would  like,  when  chal- 
lenged by  his  own  conscience,  to  reply:  "I  have  done 
so  much  work,  and  no  less,  with  my  own  hands  and 
brain,  and  taken  so  much  profit,  and  no  more,  for  my 
own  personal  delight."  And  though  St.  Paul,  if  he 
had  possessed  a  private  fortune,  would  probably  have 
scorned  to  waste  his  time  in  making  tents,  yet  of  all 
sacrifices  to  public  opinion  none  can  be  more  easily 
pardoned  than  that  by  which  a  man,  already  spiritually 
useful  to  the  world,  should  restrict  the  field  of  his  chief 
usefulness  to  perform  services  more  apparent,  and 
possess  a  livelihood  that  neither  stupidity  nor  malice 
could  call  in  question.  Like  all  sacrifices  to  public 
opinion  and  mere  external  decency,  this  would  certainly 
be  wrong;  for  the  soul  should  rest  contented  with  its 
own  approval  and  indissuadably  pursue  its  own  calling. 
Yet,  so  grave  and  delicate  is  the  question,  that  a  man 
may  well  hesitate  before  he  decides  it  for  himself;  he 

576 


LAY   MORALS 

may  well  fear  that  he  sets  too  high  a  valuation  on  his 
own  endeavours  after  good  j  he  may  well  condescend 
upon  a  humbler  duty,  where  others  than  himself  shall 
judge  the  service  and  proportion  the  wage. 

And  yet  it  is  to  this  very  responsibility  that  the  rich 
are  born.  They  can  shuffle  off  the  duty  on  no  other; 
they  are  their  own  paymasters  on  parole ;  and  must  pay 
themselves  fair  wages  and  no  more.  For  I  suppose 
that  in  the  course  of  ages,  and  through  reform  and  civil 
war  and  invasion,  mankind  was  pursuing  some  other 
and  more  general  design  than  to  set  one  or  two  Eng- 
lishmen of  the  nineteenth  century  beyond  the  reach  of 
needs  and  duties.  Society  was  scarce  put  together,  and 
defended  with  so  much  eloquence  and  blood,  for  the 
convenience  of  two  or  three  millionaires  and  a  few 
hundred  other  persons  of  wealth  and  position.  It  is 
plain  that  if  mankind  thus  acted  and  suffered  during 
all  these  generations,  they  hoped  some  benefit,  some 
ease,  some  well-being,  for  themselves  and  their  descen- 
dants; that  if  they  supported  law  and  order,  it  was  to 
secure  fair-play  for  all ;  that  if  they  denied  themselves 
in  the  present,  they  must  have  had  some  designs  upon 
the  future.  Now  a  great  hereditary  fortune  is  a  miracle 
of  man's  wisdom  and  mankind's  forbearance;  it  has 
not  only  been  amassed  and  handed  down,  it  has  been 
suffered  to  be  amassed  and  handed  down;  and  surely 
in  such  a  consideration  as  this,  its  possessor  should  find 
only  a  new  spur  to  activity  and  honour,  that  with  all 
this  power  of  service  he  should  not  prove  unserviceable, 
and  that  this  mass  of  treasure  should  return  in  benefits 
upon  the  race.  If  he  had  twenty,  or  thirty,  or  a  hundred 
thousand  at  his  banker's,  or  if  all  Yorkshire  or  all  Cali- 

577 


LAY   MORALS 

fornia  were  his  to  manage  or  to  sell,  he  would  still  be 
morally  penniless,  and  have  the  world  to  begin  like 
Whittington,  until  he  had  found  some  way  of  serving 
mankind.  His  wage  is  physically  in  his  own  hand; 
but,  in  honour,  that  wage  must  still  be  earned.  He  is 
only  steward  on  parole  of  what  is  called  his  fortune. 
He  must  honourably  perform  his  stewardship.  He 
must  estimate  his  own  services  and  allow  himself  a 
salary  in  proportion,  for  that  will  be  one  among  his 
functions.  And  while  he  will  then  be  free  to  spend 
that  salary,  great  or  little,  on  his  own  private  pleasures, 
the  rest  of  his  fortune  he  but  holds  and  disposes  under 
trust  for  mankind;  it  is  not  his,  because  he  has  not 
earned  it;  it  cannot  be  his,  because  his  services  have 
already  been  paid ;  but  year  by  year  it  is  his  to  distrib- 
ute, whether  to  help  individuals  whose  birthright  and 
outfit  have  been  swallowed  up  in  his,  or  to  further 
public  works  and  institutions. 

At  this  rate,  short  of  inspiration,  it  seems  hardly 
possible  to  be  both  rich  and  honest;  and  the  millionaire 
is  under  a  far  more  continuous  temptation  to  thieve 
than  the  labourer  who  gets  his  shilling  daily  for  despi- 
cable toils.  Are  you  surprised  ?  It  is  even  so.  And 
you  repeat  it  every  Sunday  in  your  churches.  "  It  is 
easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle 
than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  God."  I 
have  heard  this  and  similar  texts  ingeniously  explained 
away  and  brushed  from  the  path  of  the  aspiring  Chris- 
tian by  the  tender  Great-heart  of  the  parish.  One  ex- 
cellent clergyman  told  us  that  the  "  eye  of  a  needle  " 
meant  a  low.  Oriental  postern  through  which  camels 
could  not  pass  till  they  were  unloaded— which  is  very 

578 


LAY   MORALS 

likely  just ;  and  then  went  on,  bravely  confounding  the 
"  kingdom  of  God  "  with  heaven,  the  future  paradise, 
to  show  that  of  course  no  rich  person  could  expect  to 
carry  his  riches  beyond  the  grave— which,  of  course, 
he  could  not  and  never  did.  Various  greedy  sinners  of 
the  congregation  drank  in  the  comfortable  doctrine  with 
relief.  It  was  worth  the  while  having  come  to  church 
that  Sunday  morning!  All  was  plain.  The  Bible,  as 
usual,  meant  nothing  in  particular;  it  was  merely  an 
obscure  and  figurative  school  copy-book ;  and  if  a  man 
were  only  respectable,  he  was  a  man  after  God's  own 
heart. 

Alas !  I  fear  not.  And  though  this  matter  of  a  man's 
services  is  one  for  his  own  conscience,  there  are  some 
cases  in  which  it  is  difficult  to  restrain  the  mind  from 
judging.  Thus  I  shall  be  very  easily  persuaded  that 
a  man  has  earned  his  daily  bread ;  and  if  he  has  but  a 
friend  or  two  to  whom  his  company  is  delightful  at 
heart,  I  am  more  than  persuaded  at  once.  But  it  will 
be  very  hard  to  persuade  me  that  any  one  has  earned 
an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand.  What  he  is  to  his 
friends,  he  still  would  be  if  he  were  made  penniless 
to-morrow;  for  as  to  the  courtiers  of  luxury  and  power, 
I  will  neither  consider  them  friends,  nor  indeed  consider 
them  at  all.  What  he  does  for  mankind  there  are  most 
likely  hundreds  who  would  do  the  same,  as  effectually 
for  the  race  and  as  pleasurably  to  themselves,  for  the 
merest  fraction  of  this  monstrous  wage.  Why  it  is 
paid,  I  am,  therefore,  unable  to  conceive,  and  as  the 
man  pays  it  himself,  out  of  funds  in  his  detention,  I 
have  a  certain  backwardness  to  think  him  honest. 

At  least,  we  have  gained  a  very  obvious  point:  that 
579 


LAY   MORALS 

what  a  man  spends  upon  himself,  he  shall  have  earned 
by  services  to  the  race.  Thence  flows  a  principle  for  the 
outset  of  life,  which  is  a  little  different  from  that  taught 
in  the  present  day.  I  am  addressing  the  middle  and 
the  upper  classes ;  those  who  have  already  been  fostered 
and  prepared  for  life  at  some  expense;  those  who  have 
some  choice  before  them,  and  can  pick  professions; 
and  above  all,  those  who  are  what  is  called  independent, 
and  need  do  nothing  unless  pushed  by  honour  or  am~ 
bition.  In  this  particular  the  poor  are  happy;  among 
them,  when  a  lad  comes  to  his  strength,  he  must  take 
the  work  that  offers,  and  can  take  it  with  an  easy  con- 
science. But  in  the  richer  classes  the  question  is  com- 
plicated by  the  number  of  opportunities  and  a  variety 
of  considerations.  Here,  then,  this  principle  of  ours 
comes  in  helpfully.  The  young  man  has  to  seek,  not 
a  road  to  wealth,  but  an  opportunity  of  service;  not 
money,  but  honest  work.  If  he  has  some  strong  pro- 
pensity, some  calling  of  nature,  some  overweening 
interest  in  any  special  field  of  industry,  inquiry,  or  art, 
he  will  do  right  to  obey  the  impulse;  and  that  for  two 
reasons :  the  first  external,  because  there  he  will  render 
the  best  services;  the  second  personal,  because  a  de- 
mand of  his  own  nature  is  to  him  without  appeal 
whenever  it  can  be  satisfied  with  the  consent  of  his 
other  faculties  and  appetites.  If  he  has  no  such  elec- 
tive taste,  by  the  very  principle  on  which  he  chooses 
any  pursuit  at  all  he  must  choose  the  most  honest  and 
serviceable,  and  not  the  most  highly  remunerated.  We 
have  here  an  external  problem,  not  from  or  to  ourself, 
but  flowing  from  the  constitution  of  society;  and  we 
have  our  own  soul  with  its  fixed  design  of  righteous- 

580 


LAY   MORALS 

ness.  All  that  can  be  done  is  to  present  the  problem 
in  proper  terms,  and  leave  it  to  the  soul  of  the  individual. 
Now  the  problem  to  the  poor  is  one  of  necessity :  to 
earn  wherewithal  to  live,  they  must  find  remunerative 
labour.  But  the  problem  to  the  rich  is  one  of  honour: 
having  the  wherewithal,  they  must  find  serviceable 
labour.  Each  has  to  earn  his  daily  bread:  the  one, 
because  he  has  not  yet  got  it  to  eat;  the  other,  who 
has  already  eaten  it,  because  he  has  not  yet  earned  it. 

Of  course,  what  is  true  of  bread  is  true  of  luxuries 
and  comforts,  whether  for  the  body  or  the  mind.  But 
the  consideration  of  luxuries  leads  us  to  a  new  aspect 
of  the  whole  question,  and  to  a  second  proposition  no 
less  true,  and  maybe  no  less  startling,  than  the  last. 

At  the  present  day,  we,  of  the  easier  classes,  are  in 
a  state  of  surfeit  and  disgrace  after  meat.  Plethora  has 
filled  us  with  indifference;  and  we  are  covered  from 
head  to  foot  with  the  callosities  of  habitual  opulence. 
Born  into  what  is  called  a  certain  rank,  we  live,  as  the 
saying  is,  up  to  our  station.  We  squander  without 
enjoyment,  because  our  fathers  squandered.  We  eat 
of  the  best,  not  from  delicacy,  but  from  brazen  habit. 
We  do  not  keenly  enjoy  or  eagerly  desire  the  presence 
of  a  luxury ;  we  are  unaccustomed  to  its  absence.  And 
not  only  do  we  squander  money  from  habit,  but  still 
more  pitifully  waste  it  in  ostentation.  I  can  think  of 
no  more  melancholy  disgrace  for  a  creature  who  pro- 
fesses either  reason  or  pleasure  for  his  guide,  than  to 
spend  the  smallest  fraction  of  his  income  upon  that 
which  he  does  not  desire;  and  to  keep  a  carriage  in 
which  you  do  not  wish  to  drive,  or  a  butler  of  whom 
you  are  afraid,  is  a  pathetic  kind  of  folly.     Money,  being 

581 


LAY   MORALS 

a  means  of  happiness,  should  make  both  parties  happy 
when  it  changes  hands ;  rightly  disposed,  it  should  be 
twice  blessed  in  its  employment;  and  buyer  and  seller 
should  alike  have  their  twenty  shillings'  worth  of  profit 
out  of  every  pound.  Benjamin  Franklin  went  through 
life  an  altered  man,  because  he  once  paid  too  dearly  for 
a  penny  whistle.  My  concern  springs  usually  from  a 
deeper  source,  to  wit,  from  having  bought  a  whistle 
when  I  did  not  want  one.  I  find  I  regret  this,  or  would 
regret  it  if  I  gave  myself  the  time,  not  only  on  personal 
but  on  moral  and  philanthropical  considerations.  For, 
first,  in  a  world  where  money  is  wanting  to  buy  books 
for  eager  students  and  food  and  medicine  for  pining 
children,  and  where  a  large  majority  are  starved  in  their 
most  immediate  desires,  it  is  surely  base,  stupid,  and 
cruel  to  squander  money  when  I  am  pushed  by  no  ap- 
petite and  enjoy  no  return  of  genuine  satisfaction.  My 
philanthropy  is  wide  enough  in  scope  to  include  myself; 
and  when  I  have  made  myself  happy,  I  have  at  least 
one  good  argument  that  I  have  acted  rightly;  but  where 
that  is  not  so,  and  I  have  bought  and  not  enjoyed,  my 
mouth  is  closed,  and  I  conceive  that  I  have  robbed  the 
poor.  And,  second,  anything  I  buy  or  use  which  I  do 
not  sincerely  want  or  cannot  vividly  enjoy,  disturbs  the 
balance  of  supply  and  demand,  and  contributes  to  re- 
move industrious  hands  from  the  production  of  what 
is  useful  or  pleasurable  and  to  keep  them  busy  upon 
ropes  of  sand  and  things  that  are  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh.  That  extravagance  is  truly  sinful,  and  a  very 
silly  sin  to  boot,  in  which  we  impoverish  mankind  and 
ourselves.  It  is  another  question  for  each  man's  heart. 
He  knows  if  he  can  enjoy  what  he  buys  and  uses;  if  he 

582 


LAY   MORALS 

cannot,  he  is  a  dog  in  the  manger;  nay,  if  he  cannot,  I 
contend  he  is  a  thief,  for  nothing  really  belongs  to  a 
man  which  he  cannot  use.  Proprietor  is  connected 
with  propriety;  and  that  only  is  the  man's  which  is 
proper  to  his  wants  and  faculties. 

A  youth,  in  choosing  a  career,  must  not  be  alarmed 
by  poverty.  Want  is  a  sore  thing,  but  poverty  does 
not  imply  want.  It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  with 
half  his  present  income,  or  a  third,  he  cannot,  in  the 
most  generous  sense,  live  as  fully  as  at  present.  He  is 
a  fool  who  objects  to  luxuries;  but  he  is  also  a  fool 
who  does  not  protest  against  the  waste  of  luxuries  on 
those  who  do  not  desire  and  cannot  enjoy  them.  It 
remains  to  be  seen,  by  each  man  who  would  live  a  true 
life  to  himself  and  not  a  merely  specious  life  to  society, 
how  many  luxuries  he  truly  wants  and  to  how  many 
he  merely  submits  as  to  a  social  propriety;  and  all  these 
last  he  will  immediately  forswear.  Let  him  do  this, 
and  he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  little  money  it  re- 
quires to  keep  him  in  complete  contentment  and  activity 
of  mind  and  senses.  Life  at  any  level  among  the  easy 
classes  is  conceived  upon  a  principle  of  rivalry,  where 
each  man  and  each  household  must  ape  the  tastes  and 
emulate  the  display  of  others.  One  is  delicate  in  eating, 
another  in  wine,  a  third  in  furniture  or  works  of  art  or 
dress ;  and  I,  who  care  nothing  for  any  of  these  refine- 
ments, who  am  perhaps  a  plain  athletic  creature  and 
love  exercise,  beef,  beer,  flannel  shirts  and  a  camp  bed, 
am  yet  called  upon  to  assimilate  all  these  other  tastes 
and  make  these  foreign  occasions  of  expenditure  my 
own.  It  may  be  cynical:  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  told  it  is 
selfish ;  but  I  will  spend  my  money  as  I  please  and  for 

583 


LAY   MORALS 

my  own  intimate  personal  gratification,  and  should 
count  myself  a  nincompoop  indeed  to  lay  out  the  colour 
of  a  halfpenny  on  any  fancied  social  decency  or  duty. 
J  shall  not  wear  gloves  unless  my  hands  are  cold,  or 
unless  I  am  born  with  a  delight  in  them.  Dress  is  my 
own  affair,  and  that  of  one  other  in  the  world ;  that,  in 
fact  and  for  an  obvious  reason,  of  any  woman  who 
shall  chance  to  be  in  love  with  me.  I  shall  lodge  where 
I  have  a  mind.  If  I  do  not  ask  society  to  live  with  me, 
they  must  be  silent;  and  even  if  I  do,  they  have  no 
further  right  but  to  refuse  the  invitation. 

There  is  a  kind  of  idea  abroad  that  a  man  must  live 
up  to  his  station,  that  his  house,  his  table,  and  his  toi- 
lette shall  be  in  a  ratio  of  equivalence,  and  equally  im- 
posing to  the  world.  If  this  is  in  the  Bible,  the  passage 
has  eluded  my  inquiries.  If  it  is  not  in  the  Bible,  it  is 
nowhere  but  in  the  heart  of  the  fool.  Throw  aside  this 
fancy.  See  what  you  want,  and  spend  upon  that;  dis- 
tinguish what  you  do  not  care  about,  and  spend  nothing 
upon  that.  There  are  not  many  people  who  can  differ- 
entiate wines  above  a  certain  and  that  not  at  all  a  high 
price.  Are  you  sure  you  are  one  of  these  ?  Are  you 
sure  you  prefer  cigars  at  sixpence  each  to  pipes  at  some 
fraction  of  a  farthing  ?  Are  you  sure  you  wish  to  keep 
a  gig  ?  Do  you  care  about  where  you  sleep,  or  are  you 
not  as  much  at  your  ease  in  a  cheap  lodging  as  in  an 
Elizabethan  manor-house  ?  Do  you  enjoy  fine  clothes  ? 
It  is  not  possible  to  answer  these  questions  without  a 
trial;  and  there  is  nothing  more  obvious  to  my  mind 
than  that  a  man  who  has  not  experienced  some  ups  and 
downs,  and  been  forced  to  live  more  cheaply  than  in 
his  father's  house,  has  still  his  education  to  begin.    Let 

584 


LAY  MORALS 

the  experiment  be  made,  and  he  will  find  to  his  surprise 
that  he  has  been  eating  beyond  his  appetite  up  to  that 
hour;  that  the  cheap  lodging,  the  cheap  tobacco,  the 
rough  country  clothes,  the  plain  table,  have  not  only  no 
power  to  damp  his  spirits,  but  perhaps  give  him  as 
keen  pleasure  in  the  using  as  the  dainties  that  he  took, 
betwixt  sleep  and  waking,  in  his  former  callous  and 
somnambulous  submission  to  wealth. 

The  true  Bohemian,  a  creature  lost  to  view  under  the 
imaginary  Bohemians  of  literature,  is  exactly  described 
by  such  a  principle  of  life.  The  Bohemian  of  the  novel, 
who  drinks  more  than  is  good  for  him  and  prefers  any- 
thing to  work,  and  wears  strange  clothes,  is  for  the 
most  part  a  respectable  Bohemian,  respectable  in  disre- 
spectability,  living  for  the  outside,  and  an  adventurer. 
But  the  man  I  mean  lives  wholly  to  himself,  does  what 
he  wishes  and  not  what  is  thought  proper,  buys  what 
he  wants  for  himself  and  not  what  is  thought  proper, 
works  at  what  he  believes  he  can  do  well  and  not  what 
will  bring  him  in  money  or  favour.  You  may  be  the 
most  respectable  of  men,  and  yet  a  true  Bohemian. 
And  the  test  is  this :  a  Bohemian,  for  as  poor  as  he  may 
be,  is  always  open-handed  to  his  friends;  he  knows 
what  he  can  do  with  money  and  how  he  can  do  with- 
out it,  a  far  rarer  and  more  useful  knowledge;  he  has 
had  less,  and  continued  to  live  in  some  contentment; 
and  hence  he  cares  not  to  keep  more,  and  shares  his 
sovereign  or  his  shilling  with  a  friend.  The  poor,  if 
they  are  generous,  are  Bohemian  in  virtue  of  their  birth. 
Do  you  know  where  beggars  go  ?  Not  to  the  great 
houses  where  people  sit  dazed  among  their  thousands, 
but  to  the  doors  of  poor  men  who  have  seen  the  world ; 

585 


LAY   MORALS 

and  it  was  the  widow  who  had  only  two  mites,  who 
cast  half  her  fortune  into  the  treasury. 

But  a  young  man  who  elects  to  save  on  dress  or  on 
lodging,  or  who  in  any  way  falls  out  of  the  level  of 
expenditure  which  is  common  to  his  level  in  society, 
falls  out  of  society  altogether.  I  suppose  the  young 
man  to  have  chosen  his  career  on  honourable  principles ; 
he  finds  his  talents  and  instincts  can  be  best  contented 
in  a  certain  pursuit;  in  a  certain  industry,  he  is  sure 
that  he  is  serving  mankind  with  a  healthy  and  becoming 
service;  and  he  is  not  sure  that  he  would  be  doing  so, 
or  doing  so  equally  well,  in  any  other  industry  within 
his  reach.  Then  that  is  his  true  sphere  in  life;  not  the 
one  in  which  he  was  born  to  his  father,  but  the  one 
which  is  proper  to  his  talents  and  instincts.  And  sup-^ 
pose  he  does  fall  out  of  society,  is  that  a  cause  of  sorrow.^ 
Is  your  heart  so  dead  that  you  prefer  the  recognition  of 
many  to  the  love  of  a  few.^  Do  you  think  society  loves 
you  ?  Put  it  to  the  proof.  Decline  in  material  expendi- 
ture, and  you  will  find  they  care  no  more  for  you  than 
for  the  Khan  of  Tartary.  You  will  lose  no  friends.  If 
you  had  any,  you  will  keep  them.  Only  those  who 
were  friends  to  your  coat  and  equipage  will  disappear; 
the  smiling  faces  will  disappear  as  by  enchantment;  but 
the  kind  hearts  will  remain  steadfastly  kind.  Are  you  so 
lost,  are  you  so  dead,  are  you  so  little  sure  of  your  own 
soul  and  your  own  footing  upon  solid  fact,  that  you 
prefer  before  goodness  and  happiness  the  countenance 
of  sundry  diners-out,  who  will  flee  from  you  at  a  report 
of  ruin,  who  will  drop  you  with  insult  at  a  shadow  of 
disgrace,  who  do  not  know  you  and  do  not  care  to 
know  you  but  by  sight,  and  whom  you  in  your  turn 

586 


LAY  MORALS 

neither  know  nor  care  to  know  in  a  more  human  man- 
ner? Is  it  not  the  principle  of  society,  openly  avowed, 
that  friendship  must  not  interfere  with  business ;  which 
being  paraphrased,  means  simply  that  a  consideration 
of  money  goes  before  any  consideration  of  affection 
known  to  this  cold-blooded  gang,  that  they  have  not 
even  the  honour  of  thieves,  and  will  rook  their  nearest 
and  dearest  as  readily  as  a  stranger?  I  hope  I  would  go 
as  far  as  most  to  serve  a  friend ;  but  I  declare  openly  I 
would  not  put  on  my  hat  to  do  a  pleasure  to  society. 
I  may  starve  my  appetites  and  control  my  temper  for 
the  sake  of  those  I  love;  but  society  shall  take  me  as 
I  choose  to  be,  or  go  without  me.  Neither  they  nor  I 
will  lose ;  for  where  there  is  no  love,  it  is  both  laborious 
and  unprofitable  to  associate. 

But  it  is  obvious  that  if  it  is  only  right  for  a  man  to 
spend  money  on  that  which  he  can  truly  and  thoroughly 
enjoy,  the  doctrine  applies  with  equal  force  to  the  rich 
and  to  the  poor,  to  the  man  who  has  amassed  many 
thousands  as  well  as  to  the  youth  precariously  begin- 
ning life.  And  it  may  be  asked.  Is  not  this  merely 
preparing  misers,  who  are  not  the  best  of  company  ? 
But  the  principle  was  this:  that  which  a  man  has  not 
fairly  earned,  and,  further,  that  which  he  cannot  fully 
enjoy,  does  not  belong  to  him,  but  is  a  part  of  man- 
kind's treasure  which  he  holds  as  steward  on  parole. 
To  mankind,  then,  it  must  be  made  profitable;  and  how 
this  should  be  done  is,  once  more,  a  problem  which 
each  man  must  solve  for  himself,  and  about  which  none 
has  a  right  to  judge  him.  Yet  there  are  a  few  consider- 
ations which  are  very  obvious  and  may  here  be  stated. 
Mankind  is  not  only  the  whole  in  general,  but  every 

587 


LAY  MORALS 

one  in  particular.  Every  man  or  woman  is  one  of  man- 
kind's dear  possessions ;  to  his  or  her  just  brain,  and 
kind  heart,  and  active  hands,  mankind  entrusts  some  of 
its  hopes  for  the  future;  he  or  she  is  a  possible  well- 
spring  of  good  acts  and  source  of  blessings  to  the  race. 
This  money  which  you  do  not  need,  which,  in  a  rigid 
sense,  you  do  not  want,  may  therefore  be  returned  not 
only  in  public  benefactions  to  the  race,  but  in  private 
kindnesses.  Your  wife,  your  children,  your  friends 
stand  nearest  to  you,  and  should  be  helped  the  first. 
There  at  least  there  can  be  little  imposture,  for  you 
know  their  necessities  of  your  own  knowledge.  And 
consider,  if  all  the  world  did  as  you  did,  and  according 
to  their  means  extended  help  in  the  circle  of  their  affec- 
tions, there  would  be  no  more  crying  want  in  times  of 
plenty  and  no  more  cold,  mechanical  charity  given  with 
a  doubt  and  received  with  confusion.  Would  not  this 
simple  rule  make  a  new  world  out  of  the  old  and  cruel 
one  which  we  inhabit  ?  Have  you  more  money  after 
this  is  done  ?  are  you  so  wealthy  in  gold,  so  poor  in 
friends  who  need  your  help,  that  having  done  all  you 
can  among  your  own  circle,  you  have  still  much  of  man- 
kind's treasure  undisposed  upon  your  hands  ?  There 
are  still  other  matters  to  be  done  where  you  need  not 
fear  imposition;  and  what  is  over  you  may  hand  over 
without  fear  to  the  children  whom  you  have  taught; 
they  may  be  unfaithful  to  the  trust,  but  you  will  have 
done  your  best  and  told  them  on  what  a  solemn 
responsibility  they  must  accept  and  deal  with  this 
money.  .  .  . 

j4i  this  point  the  fragment  breaks  q^.— [Ed.] 
588 


PRAYERS 

WRITTEN  FOR  FAMILY  USE  AT  VAILIMA 


from  the  author's  unpublished  MSS. 


PRAYERS 


For  Success 

10RD,  behold  our  family  here  assembled.  We  thank 
^  Thee  for  this  place  in  which  we  dwell;  for  the  love 
that  unites  us ;  for  the  peace  accorded  us  this  day ;  for  the 
hope  with  which  we  expect  the  morrow ;  for  the  health, 
the  work,  the  food,  and  the  bright  skies,  that  make  our 
lives  delightful;  for  our  friends  in  all  parts  of  the  earth, 
and  our  friendly  helpers  in  this  foreign  isle.  Let  peace 
abound  in  our  small  company.  Purge  out  of  every  heart 
the  lurking  grudge.  Give  us  grace  and  strength  to  for- 
bear and  to  persevere.  Offenders,  give  us  the  grace  to 
accept  and  to  forgive  offenders.  Forgetful  ourselves, 
help  us  to  bear  cheerfully  the  forgetfulness  of  others. 
Give  us  courage  and  gaiety  and  the  quiet  mind.  Spare 
to  us  our  friends,  soften  to  us  our  enemies.  Bless  us, 
if  it  may  be,  in  all  our  innocent  endeavours.  If  it  may 
not,  give  us  the  strength  to  encounter  that  which  is  to 
come,  that  we  be  brave  in  peril,  constant  in  tribulation, 
temperate  in  wrath,  and  in  all  changes  of  fortune,  and 
down  to  the  gates  of  death,  loyal  and  loving  one  to 
another.  As  the  clay  to  the  potter,  as  the  windmill  to 
the  wind,  as  children  of  their  sire,  we  beseech  of  Thee 
this  help  and  mercy  for  Christ's  sake. 

591 


PRAYERS 

For  Grace 

Grant  that  we  here  before  Thee  may  be  set  free  from 
the  fear  of  vicissitude  and  the  fear  of  death,  may  finish 
what  remains  before  us  of  our  course  without  dishonour 
to  ourselves  or  hurt  to  others,  and,  when  the  day  comes, 
may  die  in  peace.  Deliver  us  from  fear  and  favour: 
from  mean  hopes  and  cheap  pleasures.  Have  mercy  on 
each  in  his  deficiency;  let  him  be  not  cast  down;  sup- 
port the  stumbling  on  the  way,  and  give  at  last  rest  to 
the  weary. 

At  Morning 

The  day  returns  and  brings  us  the  petty  round  of  irri- 
tating concerns  and  duties.  Help  us  to  play  the  man, 
help  us  to  perform  them  with  laughter  and  kind  faces, 
let  cheerfulness  abound  with  industry.  Give  us  to  go 
blithely  on  our  business  all  this  day,  bring  us  to  our 
resting  beds  weary  and  content  and  undishonoured, 
and  grant  us  in  the  end  the  gift  of  sleep. 

Evening 

We  come  before  Thee,  O  Lord,  in  the  end  of  thy  day 
with  thanksgiving. 

Our  beloved  in  the  far  parts  of  the  earth,  those  who 
are  now  beginning  the  labours  of  the  day  what  time 
we  end  them,  and  those  with  whom  the  sun  now  stands 
at  the  point  of  noon,  bless,  help,  console,  and  prosper 
them. 

Our  guard  is  relieved,  the  service  of  the  day  is  over, 
and  the  hour  come  to  rest.  We  resign  into  thy  hands 
our  sleeping  bodies,  our  cold  hearths  and  open  doors. 

592 


PRAYERS 

Give  us  to  awake  with  smiles,  give  us  to  labour  smiling. 
As  the  sun  returns  in  the  east,  so  let  our  patience  be 
renewed  with  dawn ;  as  the  sun  lightens  the  world,  so 
let  our  loving-kindness  make  bright  this  house  of  our 
habitation. 

Another  for  Evening 

Lord,  receive  our  supplications  for  this  house,  family, 
and  country.  Protect  the  innocent,  restrain  the  greedy 
and  the  treacherous,  lead  us  out  of  our  tribulation  into 
a  quiet  land. 

Look  down  upon  ourselves  and  upon  our  absent  dear 
ones.  Help  us  and  them ;  prolong  our  days  in  peace 
and  honour.  Give  us  health,  food,  bright  weather, 
and  light  hearts.  In  what  we  meditate  of  evil,  frustrate 
our  will;  in  what  of  good,  further  our  endeavours. 
Cause  injuries  to  be  forgot  and  benefits  to  be  remem- 
bered. 

Let  us  lie  down  without  fear  and  awake  and  arise 
with  exultation.  For  his  sake,  in  whose  words  we  now 
conclude. 

In  Time  of  Rain 

We  thank  Thee,  Lord,  for  the  glory  of  the  late  days 
and  the  excellent  face  of  thy  sun.  We  thank  Thee  for 
good  news  received.  We  thank  Thee  for  the  pleasures 
we  have  enjoyed  and  for  those  we  have  been  able  to 
confer.  And  now,  when  the  clouds  gather  and  the 
rain  impends  over  the  forest  and  our  house,  permit  us 
not  to  be  cast  down ;  let  us  not  lose  the  savour  of  past 
mercies  and  past  pleasures ;  but,  like  the  voice  of  a  bird 
singing  in  the  rain,  let  grateful  memory  survive  in  the 

593 


PRAYERS 

hour  of  darkness.  If  there  be  in  front  of  us  any  painful 
duty,  strengthen  us  with  the  grace  of  courage;  if  any 
act  of  mercy,  teach  us  tenderness  and  patience. 

Another  in  Time  of  Rain 

Lord,  Thou  sendest  down  rain  upon  the  uncounted 
millions  of  the  forest,  and  givest  the  trees  to  drink  ex- 
ceedingly. We  are  here  upon  this  isle  a  few  handfuls 
of  men,  and  how  many  myriads  upon  myriads  of  stal- 
wart trees !  Teach  us  the  lesson  of  the  trees.  The  sea 
around  us,  which  this  rain  recruits,  teems  with  the 
race  of  fish ;  teach  us,  Lord,  the  meaning  of  the  fishes. 
Let  us  see  ourselves  for  what  we  are,  one  out  of  the 
countless  number  of  the  clans  of  thy  handiwork.  When 
we  would  despair,  let  us  remember  that  these  also 
please  and  serve  Thee. 

Before  a  Temporary  Separation 

T(>DAY  we  go  forth  separate,  some  of  us  to  pleasure, 
some  of  us  to  worship,  some  upon  duty.  Go  with  us, 
our  guide  and  angel ;  hold  Thou  before  us  in  our  divided 
paths  the  mark  of  our  low  calling,  still  to  be  true  to 
what  small  best  we  can  attain  to.  Help  us  in  that,  our 
maker,  the  dispenser  of  events— Thou,  of  the  vast  de- 
signs, in  which  we  blindly  labour,  suffer  us  to  be  so 
far  constant  to  ourselves  and  our  beloved. 

For  Friends 

For  our  absent  loved  ones  we  implore  thy  loving- 
kindness.  Keep  them  in  life,  keep  them  in  growing 
honour;  and  for  us,  grant  that  we  remain  worthy  of 

594 


PRAYERS 

their  love.  For  Christ's  sake,  let  not  our  beloved  blush 
for  us,  nor  we  for  them.  Grant  us  but  that,  and  grant 
us  courage  to  endure  lesser  ills  unshaken,  and  to  accept 
death,  loss,  and  disappointment  as  it  were  straws  upon 
the  tide  of  life. 

For  the  Family 

Aid  us,  if  it  be  thy  will,  in  our  concerns.  Have 
mercy  on  this  land  and  innocent  people.  Help  them 
who  this  day  contend  in  disappointment  with  their 
frailties.  Bless  our  family,  bless  our  forest  house,  bless 
our  island  helpers.  Thou  who  hast  made  for  us  this 
place  of  ease  and  hope,  accept  and  inflame  our  gratitude ; 
help  us  to  repay,  in  service  one  to  another,  the  debt  of 
thine  unmerited  benefits  and  mercies,  so  that  when  the 
period  of  our  stewardship  draws  to  a  conclusion,  when 
the  windows  begin  to  be  darkened,  when  the  bond  of 
the  family  is  to  be  loosed,  there  shall  be  no  bitterness 
of  remorse  in  our  farewells. 

Help  us  to  look  back  on  the  long  way  that  Thou  hast 
brought  us,  on  the  long  days  in  which  we  have  been 
served  not  according  to  our  deserts  but  our  desires;  on 
the  pit  and  the  miry  clay,  the  blackness  of  despair,  the 
horror  of  misconduct,  from  which  our  feet  have  been 
plucked  out.  For  our  sins  forgiven  or  prevented,  for 
our  shame  unpublished,  we  bless  and  thank  Thee,  O 
God.  Help  us  yet  again  and  ever.  So  order  events,  so 
strengthen  our  frailty,  as  that  day  by  day  we  shall  come 
before  Thee  with  this  song  of  gratitude,  and  in  the  end 
we  be  dismissed  with  honour.  In  their  weakness  and 
their  fear,  the  vessels  of  thy  handiwork  so  pray  to  Thee, 
so  praise  Thee.     Amen. 

595 


PRAYERS 

Sunday 

We  beseech  Thee,  Lord,  to  behold  us  with  favour, 
folk  of  many  families  and  nations  gathered  together  in 
the  peace  of  this  roof,  weak  men  and  women  subsisting 
under  the  covert  of  thy  patience.  Be  patient  still ;  suffer 
us  yet  awhile  longer;— with  our  broken  purposes  of 
good,  with  our  idle  endeavours  against  evil,  suffer  us 
awhile  longer  to  endure  and  (if  it  may  be)  help  us  to 
do  better.  Bless  to  us  our  extraordinary  mercies ;  if  the 
day  come  when  these  must  be  taken,  brace  us  to  play 
the  man  under  affliction.  Be  with  our  friends,  be  with 
ourselves.  Go  with  each  of  us  to  rest;  if  any  awake, 
temper  to  them  the  dark  hours  of  watching;  and  when 
the  day  returns,  return  to  us,  our  sun  and  comforter, 
and  call  us  up  with  morning  faces  and  with  morning 
hearts— eager  to  labour— eager  to  be  happy,  if  happiness 
shall  be  our  portion— and  if  the  day  be  marked  for  sor- 
row, strong  to  endure  it. 

We  thank  Thee  and  praise  Thee;  and  in  the  words 
of  him  to  whom  this  day  is  sacred,  close  our  oblation. 

For  Self-blame 

Lord,  enlighten  us  to  see  the  beam  that  is  in  our  own 
eye,  and  blind  us  to  the  mote  that  is  in  our  brother's. 
Let  us  feel  our  offences  with  our  hands,  make  them 
great  and  bright  before  us  like  the  sun,  make  us  eat 
them  and  drink  them  for  our  diet.  Blind  us  to  the 
offences  of  our  beloved,  cleanse  them  from  our  memo- 
ries, take  them  out  of  our  mouths  for  ever.  Let  all  here 
before  Thee  carry  and  measure  with  the  false  balances 

596 


PRAYERS 

of  love,  and  be  in  their  own  eyes  and  in  all  conjunctures 
the  most  guilty.  Help  us  at  the  same  time  with  the 
grace  of  courage,  that  we  be  none  of  us  cast  down 
when  we  sit  lamenting  amid  the  ruins  of  our  happiness 
or  our  integrity :  touch  us  with  fire  from  the  altar,  that 
we  may  be  up  and  doing  to  rebuild  our  city:  in  the 
name  and  by  the  method  of  him  in  whose  words  of 
prayer  we  now  conclude. 

For  Self-forgetfulness 

Lord,  the  creatures  of  thy  hand,  thy  disinherited  chil- 
dren, come  before  Thee  with  their  incoherent  wishes 
and  regrets :  Children  we  are,  children  we  shall  be,  till 
our  mother  the  earth  hath  fed  upon  our  bones.  Accept 
us,  correct  us,  guide  us,  thy  guilty  innocents.  Dry  our 
vain  tears,  wipe  out  our  vain  resentments,  help  our  yet 
vainer  efforts.  If  there  be  any  here,  sulking  as  children 
will,  deal  with  and  enlighten  him.  Make  it  day  about 
that  person,  so  that  he  shall  see  himself  and  be  ashamed. 
Make  it  heaven  about  him.  Lord,  by  the  only  way  to 
heaven,  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  make  it  day  about  his 
neighbours,  so  that  they  shall  help,  not  hinder  him. 

For  Renewal  of  Joy 

We  are  evil,  O  God,  and  help  us  to  see  it  and  amend. 
We  are  good,  and  help  us  to  be  better.  Look  down 
upon  thy  servants  with  a  patient  eye,  even  as  Thou 
sendest  sun  and  rain;  look  down,  call  upon  the  dry 
bones,  quicken,  enliven;  re-create  in  us  the  soul  of 
service,  the  spirit  of  peace;  renew  in  us  the  sense 
of  joy. 

597 


ADDENDA 


NOTE 

These  Addenda  are  matters  which  either  came  to  the  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Stevenson's  literary  executor  after  the  collection  of  the  main  body  of  his 
writings,  or  they  are  pieces  which,  although  already  printed  in  a  fugitive 
form,  it  had  not  been  thought  best  to  include,  until  during  the  publication 
of  the  more  important  volumes  some  curiosity  was  found  to  exist  about 
them  among  collectors  and  others  who  had  learned  of  their  existence. 
They  were  therefore  brought  together  in  a  small  volume  and  added  as 
supplementary  to  the  Edinburgh  Edition  of  Mr.  Stevenson's  works.  They 
are  included  in  the  Thistle  Edition  in  order  that  nothing  important  of 
whatever  kind  may  be  omitted  from  it. 

In  speaking  of  the  appendix  volume,  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin,  the  Editor  of 
the  Edinburgh  Edition,  said : 

"It  is  a  medley,  made  up  of  items,  some  serious  and  some  trifling, 
which  for  one  reason  or  another  were  not  included  in  the  main  edition. 
Among  them  are  things  which  various  subscribers  have  already  expressed 
a  desire  to  possess.  Such  are  The  Charity  Ba^^aar  and  the  two  papers 
on  Lighthouse  Illumination  and  The  Thermal  Influence  of  Forests.  .  .  . 
The  first-named  of  these,  which  opens  the  volume,  is  a  boyish  skit  pri- 
vately printed  on  a  charity  occasion  at  Edinburgh,  I  believe  in  1868,  and 
in  its  original  form  has  for  some  time  been  a  rarity  competed  for  by  col- 
lectors. The  other  two  were  contributed  to  the  Transactions  of  the 
Royal  Scottish  Society  of  Arts  for  1871  and  the  Proceedings  of  the  Royal 
Society  of  Edinburgh  for  i8y^  respectively.  They  are  not  literature,  and 
do  not  proceed  from  any  natural  bias  of  the  writer's  mind.  They  do, 
however,  represent  the  circumstances  of  his  origin  and  eariy  training  as 
a  member  of  a  distinguished  family  of  civil  engineers;  one  of  them 
gained  the  silver  medal  of  the  Royal  Scottish  Society  of  Arts :  and  it  has 
been  ascertained  that  to  some  of  those  interested  in  his  career  their  inclu- 
sion in  this  place  will  be  welcome.     I  have  prefixed  to  them  two  sets  of 

601 


ADDENDA 

lighthouse  verses  from  his  note-books  of  i86p  and  tSyo,  one  written  in  a 
sentimental,  the  other  in  somewhat  of  a  cynic  mood,  which  show  what 
used  to  be  the  private  thoughts  and  real  preoccupations  of  the  youthful 
engineer  on  his  professional  rounds.  Next  follow  three  pieces  not  before 
printed  from  his  later  note-books.  In  Reflections  and  Remarks  on 
Human  Life  we  have  the  draft  of  some  chapters  of  an  unfinished 
treatise  on  morals  and  conduct,  subjects  on  which  he  always  wrote  in 
the  spirit  of  a  keen  and  thoughtful  soldier  in  the  battle  of  life :  in  one 
of  these  chapters  it  will  be  noticed  that  he  deals  with  the  problems  of 
free-will  and  rewards  and  punishments  on  the  same  lines  as  in  the  brilliant 
little  apologue  already  published  as  No.  /  of  his  Fables,  but  at  greater 
length.  The  Ideal  House  belongs  to  the  winter  of  1884-^,  and  sets 
forth  the  predilections,  as  to  the  site  and  arrangements  of  a  home,  of  one 
who  had  for  years  been  a  vagrant,  priding  himself  on  his  freedom  from 
local  ties  and  the  burden  of  the  worid's  gear.  But  by  this  time  he  had 
become  the  head  of  a  household,  and  having  tried  two  domiciles  in  Pro- 
vence, was  about  to  take  possession  of  a  new  one  on  the  English  coast 
at  Bournemouth.  Then  follows  the  Preface  to  "The  Master  ofBallan- 
trae,^^  written  in  the  Pacific  in  1889,  with  reminiscences  of  the  office  in 
Edinburgh  of  his  old  friend  Mr.  Charies  Baxter,  W.S.  When  he  published 
the  book  in  that  year,  he  decided  to  suppress  his  preface,  as  being  too 
much  in  the  vein  of  Jedediah  Cleishbotham  and  Mr.  Peter  Pattieson ;  but 
afterwards  he  expressed  a  wish  that  it  should  be  given  with  the  Edinburgh 
Edition.  At  that  time,  however,  the  manuscript  had  gone  astray,  an4 
the  text  has  now  been  recovered  from  his  original  draft." 


609 


THE  CHARITY   BAZAAR; 

AN    ALLEGORICAL   DIALOGUE 


PERSONS   OF  THE    DIALOGUE 

The  Ingenuous  Public, 
His  Wife. 
The  Tout. 

The  Tout  J  in  an  allegorical  costume,  holding  a  silver  trumpet  in  his 
right  hand,  is  discovered  on  the  steps  in  front  of  the  Bazaar,  He 
sounds  a  preliminary  flourish. 

The  Tout.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  have  the  honour  to  announce  a 
sale  of  many  interesting,  beautiful,  rare,  quaint,  comical,  and  necessary 
articles.  Here  you  will  find  objects  of  taste,  such  as  Babies'  Shoes, 
Children's  Petticoats,  and  Shetland  Wool  Cravats ;  objects  of  general  use- 
fulness, such  as  Tea-cosies,  Bangles,  Brahmin  Beads,  and  Madras  Baskets ; 
and  objects  of  imperious  necessity,  such  as  Pen-wipers,  Indian  Figures 
carefully  repaired  with  glue,  and  Sealed  Envelopes,  containing  a  surprise. 
And  all  this  is  not  to  be  sold  by  your  common  Shopkeepers,  intent  on 
small  and  legitimate  profits,  but  by  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  who  would 
as  soon  think  of  picking  your  pocket  of  a  cotton  handkerchief,  as  of 
selling  a  single  one  of  these  many  interesting,  beautiful,  rare,  quaint, 
comical,  and  necessary  articles  at  less  than  twice  its  market  value. 

{He  sounds  another  flourish.) 

The  Wife.   This  seems  a  very  fair-spoken  young  man. 

The  Ingenuous  Public  {addressing  the  Tout).  Sir,  1  am  a  man  of  simple 
and  untutored  mind;  but  1  apprehend  that  this  sale,  of  which  you  give 
us  so  glowing  a  description,  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a  Charity  Bazaar  ? 

60^ 


ADDENDA 

The  Tout.   Sir,  your  penetration  has  not  deceived  you. 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  Into  which  you  seek  to  entice  unwary  pas- 
sengers ? 

The  Tout.   Such  is  my  office. 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  But  is  not  a  Charity  Bazaar,  Sir,  a  place 
where,  for  ulterior  purposes,  amateur  goods  are  sold  at  a  price  above  their 
market  value  ? 

The  Tout.  I  perceive  you  are  no  novice.  Let  us  sit  down,  all  three, 
upon  the  door-steps,  and  reason  this  matter  at  length.  The  position  is  a 
little  conspicuous,  but  airy  and  convenient. 

{The  Tout  seats  himself  on  the  second  step,  the  Ingenuous  Public 
and  his  Wife  to  right  and  left  of  him,  one  step  below.) 

The  Tout.  Shopping  is  one  of  the  dearest  pleasures  of  the  human 
heart. 

The  Wife.    Indeed,  Sir,  and  that  it  is. 

The  Tout.  The  choice  of  articles,  apart  from  their  usefulness,  is  an 
appetising  occupation,  and  to  exchange  bald,  uniform  shillings  for  a  fine 
big,  figurative  knick-knack,  such  as  a  windmill,  a  gross  of  green  spectacles, 
or  a  cocked  hat,  gives  us  a  direct  and  emphatic  sense  of  gain.  We  have 
had  many  shillings  before,  as  good  as  these ;  but  this  is  the  first  time  we 
have  possessed  a  windmill.  Upon  these  principles  of  human  nature.  Sir, 
is  based  the  theory  of  the  Charity  Bazaar.  People  were  doubtless  chari- 
tably disposed.  The  problem  was  to  make  the  exercise  of  charity  enter- 
taining in  itself— you  follow  me.  Madam  ?— and  in  the  Charity  Bazaar  a 
satisfactory  solution  was  attained.  The  act  of  giving  away  money  for 
charitable  purposes  is,  by  this  admirable  invention,  transformed  into  an 
amusement,  and  puts  on  the  externals  of  profitable  commerce.  You  play 
at  shopping  awhile;  and  in  order  to  keep  up  the  illusion,  sham  goods  do 
actually  change  hands.  Thus,  under  the  similitude  of  a  game,  I  have  seen 
children  confronted  with  the  horrors  of  arithmetic,  and  even  taught  to  gargle. 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  You  expound  this  subject  very  magisterially, 
Sir.  But  tell  me,  would  it  not  be  possible  to  carry  this  element  of  play 
still  further  ?  and  after  I  had  remained  a  proper  time  in  the  Bazaar,  and 
negotiated  a  sufficient  number  of  sham  bargains,  would  it  not  be  possible 
to  return  me  my  money  in  the  hall  ? 

The  Tout.  I  question  whether  that  would  not  impair  the  humour  of 
the  situation.  And  besides,  my  dear  Sir,  the  pith  of  the  whole  device  is 
to  take  that  money  from  you. 

604 


ADDENDA 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  True.  But  at  least  the  Bazaar  might  take 
back  the  tea-cosies  and  pen-wipers. 

The  Tout.  I  have  no  doubt,  if  you  were  to  ask  it  handsomely,  that 
you  would  be  so  far  accommodated.  Still  it  is  out  of  the  theory.  The 
sham  goods,  for  which,  believe  me,  1  readily  understand  your  disaffection 
—the  sham  goods  are  well  adapted  for  their  purpose.  Your  lady  wife 
will  lay  these  tea-cosies  and  pen-wipers  aside  in  a  safe  place,  until  she  is 
asked  to  contribute  to  another  Charity  Bazaar.  There  the  tea-cosies  and 
pen-wipers  will  be  once  more  charitably  sold.  The  new  purchasers,  in 
their  turn,  will  accurately  imitate  the  dispositions  of  your  lady  wife.  In 
short.  Sir,  the  whole  affair  is  a  cycle  of  operations.  The  tea-cosies  and 
pen-wipers  are  merely  counters ;  they  come  off  and  on  again  like  a  stage 
army ;  and  year  after  year  people  pretend  to  buy  and  pretend  to  sell  them, 
with  a  vivacity  that  seems  to  indicate  a  talent  for  the  stage.  But  in  the 
course  of  these  illusory  manoeuvres,  a  great  deal  of  money  is  given  in 
charity,  and  that  in  a  picturesque,  bustling,  and  agreeable  manner.  If 
you  have  to  travel  somewhere  on  business,  you  would  choose  the  prettiest 
route,  and  desire  pleasant  companions  by  the  way.  And  why  not  show 
the  same  spirit  in  giving  alms  ? 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  Sir,  1  am  profoundly  indebted  to  you  for  all 
you  have  said.     I  am,  Sir,  your  absolute  convert. 

The  Wife.    Let  us  lose  no  time,  but  enter  the  Charity  BsizasiT. 

The  Ingenuous  Public.    Yes ;  let  us  enter  the  Charity  Bazaar. 

Both  (singing).    Let  us  enter,  let  us  enter,  let  us  enter, 
Let  us  enter  the  Charity  Bazaar! 
(y4n  interval  is  supposed  to  elapse.     The  Ingenuous  Public  and 
his  Wife  are  discovered  issuing  from  the  Charity  Ba:(aar.) 

The  Wife.    How  fortunate  you  should  have  brought  your  cheque-book ! 

The  Ingenuous  Public.  Well,  fortunate  in  a  sense.  {Addressing  the 
Tout).  Sir,  I  shall  send  a  van  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  for  the  little 
articles  1  have  purchased.  I  shall  not  say  good-bye;  because  I  shall 
probably  take  a  lift  in  the  front  seat,  not  from  any  solicitude,  believe  me, 
about  the  little  articles,  but  as  the  last  opportunity  I  may  have  for  some 
time  of  enjoying  the  costly  entertainment  of  a  drive. 

THE   SCENE  CLOSES. 


605 


ADDENDA 


THE  LIGHT-KEEPER 


The  brilliant  kernel  of  the  night, 

The  flaming  lightroom  circles  me: 
I  sit  within  a  blaze  of  light 

Held  high  above  the  dusky  sea. 
Far  off  the  surf  doth  break  and  roar 
Along  bleak  miles  of  moonlit  shore, 

Where  through  the  tides  the  tumbling  wave 
Falls  in  an  avalanche  of  foam 
And  drives  its  churned  waters  home 

Up  many  an  undercliff  and  cave. 

The  clear  bell  chimes:  the  clockworks  strain: 

The  turning  lenses  flash  and  pass, 
Frame  turning  within  glittering  frame 

With  frosty  gleam  of  moving  glass: 
Unseen  by  me,  each  dusky  hour 
The  sea-waves  welter  up  the  tower 

Or  in  the  ebb  subside  again ; 
And  ever  and  anon  all  night. 
Drawn  from  afar  by  charm  of  light, 

A  sea-bird  beats  against  the  pane. 

And  lastly  when  dawn  ends  the  night 

And  belts  the  semi-orb  of  sea, 
The  tall,  pale  pharos  in  the  light 

Looks  white  and  spectral  as  may  be. 
The  early  ebb  is  out :  the  green 
Straight  belt  of  sea-weed  now  is  seen, 

That  round  the  basement  of  the  tower 
Marks  out  the  interspace  of  tide ; 
And  watching  men  are  heavy-eyed, 

And  sleepless  lips  are  dry  and  sour. 
606 


ADDENDA 

The  night  is  over  like  a  dream : 

The  sea-birds  cry  and  dip  themselves; 
And  in  the  early  sunlight,  steam 

The  newly  bared  and  dripping  shelves, 
Around  whose  verge  the  glassy  wave 
With  lisping  wash  is  heard  to  lave ; 

While,  on  the  white  tower  lifted  high. 
With  yellow  light  in  faded  glass 
The  circling  lenses  flash  and  pass, 

And  sickly  shine  against  the  sky. 
X869. 


As  the  steady  lenses  circle 

With  a  frosty  gleam  of  glass ; 

And  the  clear  bell  chimes, 

And  the  oil  brims  over  the  lip  of  the  burner. 

Quiet  and  still  at  his  desk, 

The  lonely  Light-Keeper 

Holds  his  vigil. 

Lured  from  afar, 

The  bewildered  sea-gull  beats 

Dully  against  the  lantern ; 

Yet  he  stirs  not,  lifts  not  his  head 

From  the  desk  where  he  reads, 

Lifts  not  his  eyes  to  see 

The  chill  blind  circle  of  night 

Watching  him  through  the  panes. 

This  is  his  country's  guardian. 

The  outmost  sentry  of  peace. 

This  is  the  man. 

Who  gives  up  all  that  is  lovely  in  living 

For  the  means  to  live. 

Poetry  cunningly  gilds 
The  life  of  the  Light-Keeper, 
Held  on  high  in  the  blackness 
607 


ADDENDA 

In  the  burning  kernel  of  night. 
The  seaman  sees  and  blesses  him : 
The  Poet,  deep  in  a  sonnet, 
Numbers  his  inky  fingers 
Fitly  to  praise  him ; 
Only  we  behold  him, 
Sitting,  patient  and  stolid. 
Martyr  to  a  salary. 
1870. 

ON   A   NEW  FORM  OF  INTERMITTENT   LIGHT 
FOR    LIGHTHOUSES  1 

The  necessity  for  marked  characteristics  in  coast  illumination  increases 
with  the  number  of  lights.  The  late  Mr.  Robert  Stevenson,  my  grand- 
father, contributed  two  distinctions,  which  he  called  respectively  the 
intermittent  and  the  flashing  light.  It  is  only  to  the  former  of  these 
that  I  have  to  refer  in  the  present  paper.  The  intermittent  light  was  first 
introduced  at  Tarbetness  in  1 830,  and  is  already  in  use  at  eight  stations 
on  the  coasts  of  the  United  Kingdom.  As  constructed  originally,  it  was 
an  arrangement  by  which  a  fixed  light  was  alternately  eclipsed  and  re- 
vealed. These  recurrent  occultations  and  revelations  produce  an  effect 
totally  different  from  that  of  the  revolving  light,  which  comes  gradually 
into  its  full  strength,  and  as  gradually  fades  away.  The  changes  in  the 
intermittent,  on  the  other  hand,  are  immediate;  a  certain  duration  of 
darkness  is  followed  at  once  and  without  the  least  gradation  by  a  certain 
period  of  light.  The  arrangement  employed  by  my  grandfather  to  effect 
this  object  consisted  of  two  opaque  cylindric  shades  or  extinguishers,  one 
of  which  descended  from  the  roof,  while  the  other  ascended  from  below 
to  meet  it,  at  a  fixed  interval.     The  light  was  thus  entirely  intercepted. 

At  a  later  period,  at  the  harbour  light  of  Troon,  Mr.  Wilson,  C.  E., 
produced  an  intermittent  light  by  the  use  of  gas,  which  leaves  little  to 
be  desired,  and  which  is  still  in  use  at  Troon  harbour.  By  a  simple  me- 
chanical contrivance,  the  gas-jet  was  suddenly  lowered  to  the  point  of 
extinction,  and,  after  a  set  period,  as  suddenly  raised  again.     The  chief 

1  Read  before  the  Royal  Scottish  Society  of  Arts  on  27th  March,  1871, 
and  awarded  the  Society's  Silver  Medal. 

608 


ADDENDA 


superiority  of  this  form  of  intermittent  light  is  economy  in  the  consump- 
tion of  gas.     In  the  original  design,  of  course,  the  oil  continues  uselessly 
to  illuminate  the  interior  of  the  screens  during  the  period  of  occultation. 
Mr.  Wilson's  arrangement  has  been  lately  resuscitated  by  Mr.  Wigham 
of  Dublin,  in  connection  with  his  new  gas-burner. 

Gas,  however,  is  inapplicable  to  many  situations ;  and  it  has  occurred  to 
me  that  the  desired  result  might  be  effected  with  strict  economy  with  oil 
lights,  in  the  following  man- 
ner: 

In  Fig.  I,  AAA  represents 
in  plan  an  ordinary  Fresnel's 
dioptric  fixed  light  apparatus, 
and  BB'  a  hemispherical  mir- 
ror (either  metallic  or  dioptric 
on  my  father's  principle)  which 
is  made  to  revolve  with  uniform 
speed  about  the  burner.  This 
mirror,  it  is  obvious,  intercepts 
the  rays  of  one  hemisphere,  and, 
returning   them    through    the  ^^^fiT*  ^» 

flame  (less  loss  by  absorption,  etc.),  spreads  them  equally  over  the  other. 
In  this  way  i8o°  of  light  pass  regularly  the  eye  of  the  seaman ;  and  are 

followed  at  once  by  180°  of 
darkness.  As  the  hemispherical 
mirror  begins  to  open,  the  ob- 
server receives  the  full  light, 
since  the  whole  lit  hemisphere 
is  illuminated  with  strict  equal- 
ity; and  as  it  closes  again,  he 
passes  into  darkness. 

Other  characteristics  can  be 
produced  by  different  modifi- 
cations of  the  above.  In  Fig.  1 
the  original  hemispherical  mirror 
is  shown  broken  up  into  three 
different  sectors,  BB' ,  CO,  and 
Diy ;  so  that  with  the  same  velocity  of  revolution  the  periods  of  light 
and  darkness  will  be  produced  in  quicker  succession.   In  this  figure  (Fig.  2) 

609 


ADDENDA 


the  three  sectors  have  been  shown  as  subtending  equal  angles,  but  if  one 
of  them  were  increased  in  size  and  the  other  two  diminished  (as  in  Fig.  3), 
we  should  have  one  long  steady  illumination  and  two  short  flashes  at  each 

revolution.  Again,  the  number  of 
sectors  may  be  increased ;  and  by 
varying  both  their  number  and 
their  relative  size,  a  number  of  ad- 
ditional characteristics  are  attain- 
able. 

Colour  may  also  be  introduced 
as  a  means  of  distinction.  Col- 
^  oured  glass  may  be  set  in  the  al- 
ternate spaces ;  but  it  is  necessary 
to  remark  that  these  coloured  sec- 
tors will  be  inferior  in  power  to 
those  which  remain  white.  This 
objection  is,  however,  obviated  to 
a  large  extent  (especially  where  the 
dioptric  spherical  mirror  is  used)  by  such  an  arrangement  as  is  shown  in 
Fig.  4 ;  where  the  two  sectors,  IV fV,  are  left  unassisted,  while  the  two 
with  the  red  screens  are  rein- 
forced respectively  by  the 
two  sectors  of  mirror,  MM. 
Another  mode  of  holopho- 
tally  producing  the  intermit- 
tent light  has  been  suggested 
by  my  father,  and  is  shown 
in  Fig.  5.  It  consists  of 
alternate  and  opposite  sectors 
of  dioptric  spherical  mirror, 
MM,  and  of  Fresnel's  fixed 
light  apparatus,  j4j4.  By 
the  revolution  of  this  com- 
posite frame  about  the 
burner,  the  same  immediate 
alternation  of  light  and  darkness  is  produced,  the  first  when  the  front 
of  the  fixed  panel,  and  the  second  when  the  back  of  the  mirror,  is 
presented  to  the  eye  of  the  sailor. 

610 


ADDENDA 


One  advantage  of  the  method  that  I  propose  is  this,  that  while  we  are 
able  to  produce  a  plain  intermittent  light ;  an  intermittent  light  of  variable 
period,  ranging  from  a  brief 
flash  to  a  steady  illumination 
of  half  the  revolution ;  and 
finally,  a  light  combining 
the  immediate  occultation  of 
the  intermittent  with  com- 
bination and  change  of 
colour,  we  can  yet  preserve 
comparative  lightness  in  the 
revolving  parts,  and  conse- 
quent economy  in  the  driv- 
ing machinery.  It  must, 
however,  be  noticed,  that 
none  of  these  last  methods 
are  applicable  to  cases  where 
more  than  one  radiant  is  employed :  for  these  cases,  either  my  grand- 
father's or  Mr.  Wilson's  contrivance  must  be  resorted  to. 

1871. 


Fig.  5. 


ON  THE  THERMAL  INFLUENCE   OF   FORESTS  1 


The  opportunity  of  an  experiment  on  a  comparatively  large  scale,  and 
under  conditions  of  comparative  isolation,  can  occur  but  rarely  in  such  a 
science  as  Meteorology.  Hence  Mr.  Milne  Home's  proposal  for  the  plan- 
tation of  Malta  seemed  to  offer  an  exceptional  opportunity  for  progress. 
Many  of  the  conditions  are  favourable  to  the  simplicity  of  the  result ;  and 
it  seemed  natural  that,  if  a  searching  and  systematic  series  of  observations 
were  to  be  immediately  set  afoot,  and  continued  during  the  course  of  the 
plantation  and  the  growth  of  the  wood,  some  light  would  be  thrown  on 
the  still  doubtful  question  of  the  climatic  influence  of  forests. 

Mr,  Milne  Home  expects,  as  I  gather,  a  threefold  result:  1st,  an  in- 
creased and  better-regulated  supply  of  available  water ;  2nd,  an  increased 
rainfall ;  and,  3rd,  a  more  equable  climate,  with  more  temperate  summer 

1  Read  before  the  Royal  Society,  Edinburgh,  19th  May,  1873,  *^d  re- 
printed from  the  Proceeding's  R.  S.  E. 

611 


ADDENDA 

heat  and  winter  cold.^  As  to  the  first  of  these  expectations,  1  suppose 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  justified  by  facts ;  but  it  may  not  be 
unnecessary  to  guard  against  any  confusion  of  the  first  with  the  second. 
Not  only  does  the  presence  of  growing  timber  increase  and  regulate  the 
supply  of  running  and  spring  water  independently  of  any  change  in  the 
amount  of  rainfall,  but,  as  Boussingault  found  at  Marmato,2  denudation 
of  forest  is  sufficient  to  decrease  that  supply,  even  when  the  rainfall  has 
increased  instead  of  diminished  in  amount.  The  second  and  third  effects 
stand  apart,  therefore,  from  any  question  as  to  the  utility  of  Mr.  Milne 
Home's  important  proposal ;  they  are  both,  perhaps,  worthy  of  discussion 
at  the  present  time,  but  I  wish  to  confine  myself  in  the  present  paper  to 
the  examination  of  the  third  alone. 

A  wood,  then,  may  be  regarded  either  as  a  superficies  or  as  a  solid; 
that  is,  either  as  a  part  of  the  earth's  surface  slightly  elevated  above  the 
rest,  or  as  a  diffused  and  heterogeneous  body  displacing  a  certain  portion 
of  free  and  mobile  atmosphere.  It  is  primarily  in  the  first  character  that  it 
attracts  our  attention,  as  a  radiating  and  absorbing  surface,  exposed  to  the 
sun  and  the  currents  of  the  air ;  such  that,  if  we  imagine  a  plateau  of  mea- 
dow-land or  bare  earth  raised  to  the  mean  level  of  the  forest's  exposed 
leaf-surface,  we  shall  have  an  agent  entirely  similar  in  kind,  although  per- 
haps widely  differing  in  the  amount  of  action.  Now,  by  comparing  a  tract 
of  wood  with  such  a  plateau  as  we  have  just  supposed,  we  shall  arrive  at 
a  clear  idea  of  the  specialties  of  the  former.  In  the  first  place,  then,  the 
mass  of  foliage  may  be  expected  to  increase  the  radiating  power  of  each 
tree.  The  upper  leaves  radiate  freely  towards  the  stars  and  the  cold  in- 
terstellar spaces,  while  the  lower  ones  radiate  to  those  above  and  receive 
less  heat  in  return ;  consequently,  during  the  absence  of  the  sun,  each  tree 
cools  gradually  downward  from  top  to  bottom.  Hence  we  must  take 
into  account  not  merely  the  area  of  leaf-surface  actually  exposed  to  the 
sky,  but,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  the  surface  of  every  leaf  in  the  whole 
tree  or  the  whole  wood.  This  is  evidently  a  point  in  which  the  action  of 
the  forest  may  be  expected  to  differ  from  that  of  the  meadow  or  naked 
earth ;  for  though,  of  course,  inferior  strata  tend  to  a  certain  extent  to 
follow  somewhat  the  same  course  as  the  mass  of  inferior  leaves,  they  da 
so  to  a  less  degree— conduction,  and  the  conduction  of  a  very  slow  con- 
ductor, beinp^   ubstituted  for  radiation. 

1  Jour.  Scot.  Met.  Soc,  New  Ser.,  xxvi.  35. 

2  Quoted  by  Mr.  Milne  Home. 

6\2 


ADDENDA 

We  come  next,  however,  to  a  second  point  of  difference.  In  the 
case  of  the  meadow,  the  chilled  air  continues  to  lie  upon  the  surface,  the 
grass,  as  Humboldt  says,  remaining  all  night  submerged  in  the  stratum  of 
lowest  temperature ;  while  in  the  case  of  trees,  the  coldest  air  is  continually 
passing  down  to  the  space  underneath  the  boughs,  or  what  we  may  per- 
haps term  the  crypt  of  the  forest.  Here  it  is  that  the  consideration  of 
any  piece  of  woodland  conceived  as  a  solid  comes  naturally  in ;  for  this 
solid  contains  a  portion  of  the  atmosphere,  partially  cut  off  from  the  rest, 
more  or  less  excluded  from  the  influence  of  wind,  and  lying  upon  a  soil 
that  is  screened  all  day  from  isolation  by  the  impending  mass  of  foli- 
age. In  this  way  (and  chiefly,  I  think,  from  the  exclusion  of  winds), 
we  have  underneath  the  radiating  leaf-surface  a  stratum  of  comparatively 
stagnant  air,  protected  from  many  sudden  variations  of  temperature,  and 
tending  only  slowly  to  bring  itself  into  equilibrium  with  the  more  general 
changes  that  take  place  in  the  free  atmosphere. 

Over  and  above  what  has  been  mentioned,  thermal  effects  have  been 
attributed  to  the  vital  activity  of  the  leaves  in  the  transudation  of  water, 
and  even  to  the  respiration  and  circulation  of  living  wood.  The  whole 
actual  amount  of  thermal  influence,  however,  is  so  small  that  I  may  rest 
satisfied  with  the  mere  mention.  If  these  actions  have  any  effect  at  all, 
it  must  be  practically  insensible ;  and  the  others  that  I  have  already  stated 
are  not  only  sufficient  validly  to  account  for  all  the  observed  differences, 
but  would  lead  naturally  to  the  expectation  of  differences  very  much 
larger  and  better  marked.  To  these  observations  I  proceed  at  once.  Ex- 
perience has  been  acquired  upon  the  following  three  points:  i,  The 
relation  between  the  temperature  of  the  trunk  of  a  tree  and  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  surrounding  atmosphere;  2,  The  relation  between  the  temper- 
ature of  the  air  under  a  wood  and  the  temperature  of  the  air  outside ; 
and,  3,  The  relation  between  the  temperature  of  the  air  above  a  wood  and 
the  temperature  of  the  air  above  cleared  land. 

As  to  the  first  question,  there  are  several  independent  series  of  observa- 
tions ;  and  I  may  remark  in  passing,  what  applies  to  all,  that  allowance 
must  be  made  throughout  for  some  factor  of  specific  heat.  The  results 
were  as  follows:  The  seasonal  and  monthly  means  in  the  tree  and  in 
the  air  were  not  sensibly  different.  The  variations  in  the  tree,  in  M.  Bec- 
querel's  own  observations,  appear  as  considerably  less  than  a  fourth  of 
those  in  the  atmosphere,  and  he  has  calculated,  from  observations  made 
at  Geneva  between  1 796  and  1 798,  that  the  variations  in  the  tree  were 

613 


ADDENDA 

less  than  a  fifth  of  those  in  the  air;  but  the  tree  in  this  case,  besides 
being  of  a  different  species,  was  seven  or  eight  inches  thicker  than  the 
one  experimented  on  by  himself.!  The  variations  in  the  tree,  therefore, 
are  always  less  than  those  in  the  air,  the  ratio  between  the  two  depending 
apparently  on  the  thickness  of  the  tree  in  question  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  the  variations  followed  upon  one  another.  The  .times  of  the  maxima, 
moreover,  were  widely  different :  in  the  air,  the  maximum  occurs  at  2  p.  m. 
in  winter,  and  at  3  p.  m.  in  summer ;  in  the  tree,  it  occurs  in  winter  at 
6  p.  M.,  and  in  summer  between  10  and  1 1  p.  m.  At  nine  in  the  morning 
in  the  month  of  June,  the  temperatures  of  the  tree  and  of  the  air  had 
come  to  an  equilibrium.  A  similar  difference  of  progression  is  visible  in 
the  means,  which  differ  most  in  spring  and  autumn,  and  tend  to  equalise 
themselves  in  winter  and  in  summer.  But  it  appears  most  strikingly  in 
the  case  of  variations  somewhat  longer  in  period  than  the  daily  ranges. 
The  following  temperatures  occurred  during  M.  Becquerel's  observations 
in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes : 

Date,  Temperature  Temperatiire 

1859.  of  the  Air.  in  the  Tree. 

Dec.  15 26.78°        32° 

"16 19.76°        32° 

"17 17.78°        31.46* 

"18 13.28°        30.56° 

"19 12.02°  ....  28.40° 

"20 12.54°  ....  25.34° 

"21 38.30°        27.86° 

"22 43.34°  ....  30.92° 

"23 44.06°        31.46** 

A  moment's  comparison  of  the  two  columns  will  make  the  principle 
apparent.  The  temperature  of  the  air  falls  nearly  fifteen  degrees  in  five 
days ;  the  temperature  of  the  tree,  sluggishly  following,  falls  in  the  same 
time  less  than  four  degrees.  Between  the  1 9th  and  20th  the  temperature 
of  the  air  has  changed  its  direction  of  motion,  and  risen  nearly  a  degree ; 
but  the  temperature  of  the  tree  persists  in  its  former  course,  and  continues 
to  fall  nearly  three  degrees  farther.  On  the  2 1  st  there  comes  a  sudden 
increase  of  heat,  a  sudden  thaw ;  the  temperature  of  the  air  rises  twenty- 
five  and  a  half  degrees ;  the  change  at  last  reaches  the  tree,  but  only  raises 

1  Ailas  MiUorologique  de  V  Observatoire  ImpMal,  1867. 
614 


ADDENDA 

its  temperature  by  less  than  three  degrees;  and  even  two  days  afterwards, 
when  the  air  is  already  twelve  degrees  above  freezing-point,  the  tree  is 
still  half  a  degree  below  it.     Take,  again,  the  following  case : 

Date,                                     Temperature  Temperature 

1859.                                         of  the  Air.  in  the  Tree. 

July  13 84.920  ....  76.28*> 

"14 82.58°  78.62'* 

"15 80.42°  7772* 

*'     16 79.88°  ....  78.44° 

"17 73.22°  ....  75.92° 

"18 68.54°  ....  74.30** 

«•     19 65.66°  70.70° 

The  same  order  reappears.  From  the  13th  to  the  19th  the  temperature 
of  the  air  steadily  falls,  while  the  temperature  of  the  tree  continues  appa- 
rently to  follow  the  course  of  previous  variations,  and  does  not  really 
begin  to  fall,  is  not  really  affected  by  the  ebb  of  heat,  until  the  1 7th,  three 
days  at  least  after  it  had  been  operating  in  the  air.i  Hence  we  may  con- 
clude that  all  variations  of  the  temperature  of  the  air,  whatever  be  their 
period,  from  twenty-four  hours  up  to  twelve  months,  are  followed  in  the 
same  manner  by  variations  in  the  temperature  of  the  tree ;  and  that  those 
in  the  tree  are  always  less  in  amount  and  considerably  slower  of  occurrence 
than  those  in  the  air.  The  thermal  sluggishness,  so  to  speak,  seems 
capable  of  explaining  all  the  phenomena  of  the  case  without  any  hypo- 
thetical vital  power  of  resisting  temperatures  below  the  freezing-point, 
such  as  is  hinted  at  even  by  Becquerel. 

Reaumur,  indeed,  is  said  to  have  observed  temperatures  in  slender  trees 
nearly  thirty  degrees  higher  than  the  temperature  of  the  air  in  the  sun ; 
but  we  are  not  informed  as  to  the  conditions  under  which  this  observa- 
tion was  made,  and  it  is  therefore  impossible  to  assign  to  it  its  proper 
value.  The  sap  of  the  ice-plant  is  said  to  be  materially  colder  than  the 
surrounding  atmosphere ;  and  there  are  several  other  somewhat  incongru- 
ous facts,  which  tend,  at  first  sight,  to  favour  the  view  of  some  inherent 
power  of  resistance  in  some  plants  to  high  temperatures,  and  in  others  to 
low  temperatures. 2     But  such  a  supposition  seems  in  the  meantime  to  be 

1  Comptes  Rendus  de  I'Acadimie,  29th  March,  1869. 

>  Professor  Balfour's  Class  Book  of  Botany,  Physiology,  chap.  xii.  p.  670^' 

615 


ADDENDA 

gratuitous.  Keeping  in  view  the  thermal  redispositions,  which  must  be 
greatly  favoured  by  the  ascent  of  the  sap,  and  the  difference  between  the 
condition  as  to  temperature  of  such  parts  as  the  root,  the  heart  of  the 
trunk,  and  the  extreme  foliage,  and  never  forgetting  the  unknown  factor 
of  specific  heat,  we  may  still  regard  it  as  possible  to  account  for  all  anom- 
alies without  the  aid  of  any  such  hypothesis.  We  may,  therefore,  I 
think,  disregard  small  exceptions,  and  state  the  result  as  follows : 

If,  after  every  rise  or  fall,  the  temperature  of  the  air  remained  stationary 
for  a  length  of  time  proportional  to  the  amount  of  the  change,  it  seems 
probable— setting  aside  all  question  of  vital  heat— that  the  temperature  of 
the  tree  would  always  finally  equalise  itself  with  the  new  temperature  of 
the  air,  and  that  the  range  in  tree  and  atmosphere  would  thus  become  the 
same.  This  pause,  however,  does  not  occur :  the  variations  follow  each 
other  without  interval ;  and  the  slow-conducting  wood  is  never  allowed 
enough  time  to  overtake  the  rapid  changes  of  the  more  sensitive  air. 
Hence,  so  far  as  we  can  see  at  present,  trees  appear  to  be  simply  bad 
conductors,  and  to  have  no  more  influence  upon  the  temperature  of  their 
surroundings  than  is  fully  accounted  for  by  the  consequent  tardiness  of 
their  thermal  variations. 

Observations  bearing  on  the  second  of  the  three  points  have  been  made 
by  Becquerel  in  France,  by  La  Cour  in  Jutland  and  Iceland,  and  by  Rivoli 
at  Posen.  The  results  are  perfectly  congruous.  Becquerel's  observations  ^ 
were  made  under  wood,  and  about  a  hundred  yards  outside  in  open  ground, 
at  three  stations  in  the  district  of  Montargis,  Loiret.  There  was  a  differ- 
ence of  more  than  one  degree  Fahrenheit  between  the  mean  annual  tem- 
peratures in  favour  of  the  open  ground.  The  mean  summer  temperature 
in  the  wood  was  from  two  to  three  degrees  lower  than  the  mean  summer 
temperature  outside.  The  mean  maxima  in  the  wood  were  also  lower 
than  those  without  by  a  little  more  than  two  degrees.  Herr  La  Cour  2 
found  the  daily  range  consistently  smaller  inside  the  wood  than  outside. 
As  far  as  regards  the  mean  winter  temperatures,  there  is  an  excess  in 
favour  of  the  forests,  but  so  trifling  in  amount  as  to  be  unworthy  of 
much  consideration.  Libri  found  that  the  minimum  winter  temperatures 
were  not  sensibly  lower  in  Florence,  after  the  Apennines  had  been  denuded 
of  forest,  than  they  had  been  before.^    The  disheartening  contradictori- 

i  Comptes  Rendus,  1867  and  1869. 

*  See  his  paper. 

*  Annales  de  ChimU  et  de  Physique,  xlv.,  1830.    A  more  detailed  corn* 

616 


ADDENDA 


ness  of  his  observations  on  this  subject  led  Herr  Rivoli  to  the  following 
ingenious  and  satisfactory  comparison. i  Arranging  his  results  according 
to  the  wind  that  blew  on  the  day  of  observation,  he  set  against  each  other 
the  variation  of  the  temperature  under  wood  from  that  without,  and  the 
variation  of  the  temperature  of  the  wind  from  the  local  mean  for  the 
month : 


Wind 

N. 

N.E. 

E. 

S.E. 

S. 

s.w. 

w. 

N.W. 

Var  in  Wood 

+0.60 
—0  30 

+0.26 
-2.60 

+0.26 
-330 

+0.04 
—  1.20 

-0.04 
+1.00 

— 0.20 

+1.30 

+0.16 
+  1.00 

+0.07 
+  1.00 

Var.  in  Wind 

From  this  curious  comparison,  it  becomes  apparent  that  the  variations 
of  the  difference  in  question  depend  upon  the  amount  of  variations  of 
temperature  which  take  place  in  the  free  air,  and  on  the  slowness  with 
which  such  changes  are  communicated  to  the  stagnant  atmosphere  of 
woods;  in  other  words,  as  Herr  Rivoli  boldly  formulates  it,  a  forest  is 
simply  a  bad  conductor.  But  this  is  precisely  the  same  conclusion  as  we 
have  already  arrived  at  with  regard  to  individual  trees ;  and  in  Herr  Rivoli's 
table,  what  we  see  is  just  another  case  of  what  we  saw  in  M.  Becquerel's 
—the  different  progression  of  temperatures.  It  must  be  obvious,  how- 
ever, that  the  thermal  condition  of  a  single  tree  must  be  different  in  many 
ways  from  that  of  a  combination  of  trees  and  more  or  less  stagnant  air, 
such  as  we  call  a  forest.  And  accordingly  we  find,  in  the  case  of  the 
latter,  the  following  new  feature:  The  mean  yearly  temperature  of 
woods  is  lower  than  the  mean  yearly  temperature  of  free  air,  while  they 
are  decidedly  colder  in  summer,  and  very  little,  if  at  all,  warmer  in  winter. 
Hence,  on  the  whole,  forests  are  colder  than  cleared  lands.  But  this  is 
just  what  might  have  been  expected  from  the  amount  of  evaporation, 
the  continued  descent  of  cold  air,  and  its  stagnation  in  the  close  and 
sunless  crypt  of  a  forest;  and  one  can  only  wonder  here,  as  elsewhere, 
that  the  resultant  difference  is  so  insignificant  and  doubtful. 

We  come  now  to  the  third  point  in  question,  the  thermal  influence  of 
woods  upon  the  air  above  them.  It  will  be  remembered  that  we  have 
Seen  reason  to  believe  their  effect  to  be  similar  to  that  of  certain  other 
surfaces,  except  in  so  far  as  it  may  be  altered,  in  the  case  of  the  forest, 

parison  of  the  climate  in  question  would  be  a  most  interesting  and  impo^ 
tant  contribution  to  the  subject. 

*  Reviewed  in  the  Austrian  Meteorological  Magazine,  vol.  iv.  p.  543. 
617 


ADDENDA 

by  the  greater  extent  of  effective  radiating  area,  and  by  the  possibility  ot 
generating  a  descending  cold  current  as  well  as  an  ascending  hot  one. 
M.  Becquerel  is  (so  far  as  I  can  learn)  the  only  observer  who  has  taken  up 
the  elucidation  of  this  subject.  He  placed  his  thermometers  at  three 
points  'A  A  and  B  were  both  about  seventy  feet  above  the  surface  of  the 
ground ;  but  A  was  at  the  summit  of  a  chestnut-tree,  while  B  was  in  the 
free  air,  fifty  feet  away  from  the  other.  C  was  four  or  five  feet  above 
the  ground,  with  a  northern  exposure ;  there  was  also  a  fourth  station  to 
the  south,  at  the  same  level  as  this  last,  but  its  readings  are  very  seldom 
referred  to.  After  several  years  of  observation,  the  mean  temperature  at 
A  was  found  to  be  between  one  and  two  degrees  higher  than  that  at  B. 
The  order  of  progression  of  differences  is  as  instructive  here  as  in  the  two 
former  investigations.  The  maximum  difference  in  favour  of  station  A 
occurred  between  three  and  five  in  the  afternoon,  later  or  sooner  accord- 
ing as  there  had  been  more  or  less  sunshine,  and  ranged  sometimes  as  high 
as  seven  degrees.  After  this  the  difference  kept  declining  until  sunrise,, 
when  there  was  often  a  difference  of  a  degree,  or  a  degree  and  a  half^ 
upon  the  other  side.  On  cloudy  days  the  difference  tended  to  a  minimum. 
During  a  rainy  month  of  April,  for  example,  the  difference  in  favour  of 
station  A  was  less  than  half  a  degree;  the  first  fifteen  days  of  May 
following,  however,  were  sunny,  and  the  difference  rose  to  more  than  a 
degree  and  a  half.^  It  will  be  observed  that  I  have  omitted  up  to  the 
present  point  all  mention  of  station  C.  I  do  so  because  M.  Becquerel's 
language  leaves  it  doubtful  whether  the  observations  made  at  this  station 
are  logically  comparable  with  those  made  at  the  other  two.  If  the  end 
in  view  were  to  compare  the  progression  of  temperatures  above  the  earth, 
above  a  tree,  and  in  free  air,  removed  from  all  such  radiative  and  absorjv 
tive  influences,  it  is  plain  that  all  three  should  have  been  equally  exposed 
to  the  sun  or  kept  equally  in  shadow.  As  the  observations  were  made, 
they  give  us  no  notion  of  the  relative  action  of  the  earth-surface  and 
forest-surface  upon  the  temperature  of  the  contiguous  atmosphere;  and 
this,  as  it  seems  to  me,  was  just  the  crux  of  the  problem.  So  far,  how- 
ever, as  they  go,  they  seem  to  justify  the  view  that  all  these  actions  are 
the  same  in  kind,  however  they  may  differ  in  degree.  We  find  the  forest 
heating  the  air  during  the  day,  and  heating  it  more  or  less  according  as 
there  has  been  more  or  less  sunshine  for  it  to  absorb,  and  we  find  it  also 

1  Comptes  Rendus,  28th  May,  i86o. 
«  Ibid.,  20th  May,  1861. 
618 


ADDENDA 

chilling  it  during  the  night ;  both  of  which  are  actions  common  to  any 
radiating  surface,  and  would  be  produced,  if  with  differences  of  amount 
and  time,  by  any  other  such  surface  raised  to  the  mean  level  of  the  ex- 
posed foliage. 

To  recapitulate : 

ist.   We  find  that  single  trees  appear  to  act  simply  as  bad  conductors. 

2nd.  We  find  that  woods,  regarded  as  solids,  are,  on  the  whole,, 
slightly  lower  in  temperature  than  the  free  air  which  they  have  displaced, 
and  that  they  tend  slowly  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  various  thermal, 
changes  that  take  place  without  them. 

3rd.  We  find  forests  regarded  as  surfaces  acting  like  any  other  part  of 
the  earth's  surface,  probably  with  more  or  less  difference  in  amount  and 
progression,  which  we  still  lack  the  information  necessary  to  estimate. 

All  this  done,  I  am  afraid  that  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  more 
general  climatic  investigations  will  be  long  and  vexatious.  Even  in  South 
America,  with  extremely  favourable  conditions,  the  result  is  far  from  being 
definite.  Glancing  over  the  table  published  by  M.  Becquerel  in  his  book 
on  climates,  from  the  observations  of  Humboldt,  Hall,  Boussingault,  and 
others,  it  becomes  evident,  I  think,  that  nothing  can  be  founded  upon  the 
comparisons  therein  instituted ;  that  all  reasoning,  in  the  present  state  of 
our  information,  is  premature  and  unreliable.  Strong  statements  have 
certainly  been  made ;  and  particular  cases  lend  themselves  to  the  forma- 
tion of  hasty  judgments.  "  From  the  Bay  of  Cupica  to  the  Gulf  of 
Guayaquil,"  says  M.  Boussingault,  "the  country  is  covered  with  immense 
forests  and  traversed  by  numerous  rivers ;  it  rains  there  almost  ceaselessly ; 
and  the  mean  temperature  of  this  moist  district  scarcely  reaches  78.8**  F.  . . . 
vAt  Payta  commence  the  sandy  deserts  of  Priura  and  Sechura;  to  the  con- 
stant humidity  of  Choco  succeeds  almost  at  once  an  extreme  of  dryness; 
and  the  mean  temperature  of  the  coast  increases  at  the  same  time  by  1 .8** 
F."i  Even  in  this  selected  favourable  instance  it  might  be  argued  that 
the  part  performed  in  the  change  by  the  presence  or  absence  of  forest 
was  comparatively  small;  there  seems  to  have  been,  at  the  same  time,  an 
entire  change  of  soil ;  and,  in  our  present  ignorance,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say  by  how  much  this  of  itself  is  able  to  affect  the  climate.  Moreover, 
it  is  possible  that  the  humidity  of  the  one  district  is  due  to  other  causes 
besides  the  presence  of  wood,  or  even  that  the  presence  of  wood  is  itself 
only  an  effect  of  some  more  general  difference  or  combination  of  differ- 
1  Becquerel,  Climats,  p.  141. 
619 


ADDENDA 

ences.  Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  we  have  only  to  look  a  little  longer 
at  the  table  before  referred  to,  to  see  how  little  weight  can  be  laid  on 
such  special  instances.  Let  us  take  five  stations,  all  in  this  very  district 
of  Choco.  Hacquita  is  eight  hundred  and  twenty  feet  above  Novita,  and 
their  mean  temperatures  are  the  same.  Alto  de  Mombu,  again,  is  five 
hundred  feet  higher  than  Hacquita,  and  the  mean  temperature  has  here 
fallen  nearly  two  degrees.  Go  up  another  five  hundred  feet  to  Tambo 
de  la  Orquita,  and  again  we  find  no  fall  in  the  mean  temperature.  Go 
up  some  five  hundred  farther  to  Chami,  and  there  is  a  fall  in  the  mean 
temperature  of  nearly  six  degrees.  Such  numbers  are  evidently  quite 
untrustworthy;  and  hence  we  may  judge  how  much  confidence  can  be 
placed  in  any  generalisation  from  these  South  American  mean  temperatures. 

The  question  is  probably  considered  too  simply  —  too  much  to  the 
neglect  of  concurrent  influences.  Until  we  know,  for  example,  some- 
what more  of  the  comparative  radiant  powers  of  different  soils,  we 
cannot  expect  any  very  definite  result.  A  change  of  temperature  would 
certainly  be  effected  by  the  plantation  of  such  a  marshy  district  as  the 
Sologne,  because,  if  nothing  else  were  done,  the  roots  might  pierce 
the  impenetrable  subsoil,  allow  the  surface-water  to  drain  itself  off, 
and  thus  dry  the  country.  But  might  not  the  change  be  quite  different 
if  the  soil  planted  were  a  shifting  sand,  which,  fixed  by  the  roots  of 
the  trees,  would  become  gradually  covered  with  a  vegetable  earth, 
and  thus  be  changed  from  dry  to  wet  ?  Again,  the  complication  and 
conflict  of  effects  arises,  not  only  from  the  soil,  vegetation,  and  geo- 
graphical position  of  the  place  of  the  experiment  itself,  but  from  the 
distribution  of  similar  or  different  conditions  in  its  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood, and  probably  to  great  distances  on  every  side.  A  forest, 
for  example,  as  we  know  from  Herr  Rivoli's  comparison,  would  exer- 
cise a  perfectly  different  influence  in  a  cold  country  subject  to  warm 
winds,  and  in  a  warm  country  subject  to  cold  winds;  so  that  our 
question  might  meet  with  different  solutions  even  on  the  east  and  west 
coasts  of  Great  Britain. 

The  consideration  of  such  a  complexity  points  more  and  more  to  the 
plantation  of  Malta  as  an  occasion  of  special  importance;  its  insular 
position  and  the  unity  of  its  geological  structure  both  tend  to  simplify 
the  question.  There  are  certain  points  about  the  existing  climate, 
moreover,  which  seem  specially  calculated  to  throw  the  influence  of 
Avoods  into  a  strong  relief.     Thus,  during  four  summer  months,  there 

620 


ADDENDA 

Is  piactically  no  rainfall.  Thus,  again,  the  northerly  winds  when 
stormy,  and  especially  in  winter,  tend  to  depress  the  temperature  very 
suddenly;  and  thus,  too,  the  southerly  and  south-westerly  winds, 
which  raise  the  temperature  during  their  prevalence  to  from  eighty- 
eight  to  ninety-eight  degrees,  seldom  last  longer  than  a  few  hours; 
insomuch  that  "their  disagreeable  heat  and  dryness  may  be  escaped 
by  carefully  closing  the  windows  and  doors  of  apartments  at  their 
onset,  "1  Such  sudden  and  short  variations  seem  just  what  is  wanted 
to  accentuate  the  differences  in  question.  Accordingly,  the  opportu- 
nity seems  one  not  lightly  to  be  lost,  and  the  British  Association  or 
this  Society  itself  might  take  the  matter  up  and  establish  a  series  of 
observations,  to  be  continued  during  the  next  few  years.  Such  a  com- 
bination of  favourable  circumstances  may  not  occur  again  for  years; 
and  when  the  whole  subject  is  at  a  standstill  for  want  of  facts,  the 
present  occasion  ought  not  to  go  past  unimproved. 

Such  observations  might  include  the  following: 

The  observation  of  maximum  and  minimum  thermometers  in  three 
different  classes  of  situation  —  videlicet,  in  the  areas  selected  for  plan- 
tation themselves,  at  places  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  those 
areas  where  the  external  influence  might  be  expected  to  reach  its  maxi- 
mum, and  at  places  distant  from  those  areas  where  the  influence  might 
be  expected  to  be  least. 

The  operation  of  rain-gauges  and  hygrometers  at  the  same  three 
descriptions  of  locality. 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  hours  of  observation,  special  readings  of 
the  thermometers  should  be  made  as  often  as  possible  at  a  change 
of  wind  and  throughout  the  course  of  the  short  hot  breezes  alluded  to 
already,  in  order  to  admit  of  the  recognition  and  extension  of  Herr 
Rivoli's  comparison. 

Observation  of  the  periods  and  forces  of  the  land  and  sea  breezes. 

Gauging  of  the  principal  springs,  both  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
areas  of  plantation  and  at  places  far  removed  from  those  areaj 

1873. 

1  Scoresby-Jackson's  Medical  Climatology, 


6ai 


ADDENDA 


REFLECTION  AND  REMARKS  ON  HUMAN  LIFE 

I.  Justice  and  Justification. — (i)  It  is  the  business  of  this  life  to 
make  excuses  for  others,  but  none  for  ourselves.  We  should  be  clearly 
persuaded  of  our  own  misconduct,  for  that  is  the  part  of  knowledge  in 
Avhich  we  are  most  apt  to  be  defective.  (2)  Even  justice  is  no  right 
of  a  man's  own,  but  a  thing,  like  the  king's  tribute,  which  shall  never 
be  his,  but  which  he  should  strive  to  see  rendered  to  another.  None 
was  ever  just  to  me;  none  ever  will  be.  You  may  reasonably  aspire 
to  be  chief  minister  or  sovereign  pontiff ;  but  not  to  be  justly  regarded 
in  your  own  character  and  acts.  You  know  too  much  to  be  satisfied. 
For  justice  is  but  an  earthly  currency,  paid  to  appearances;  you  may 
see  another  superficially  righted;  but  be  sure  he  has  got  too  little  or 
too  much;  and  in  your  own  case  rest  content  with  what  is  paid  you. 
It  is  more  just  than  you  suppose;  that  your  virtues  are  misunderstood 
*is  a  price  you  pay  to  keep  your  meannesses  concealed.  (3)  When  you 
seek  to  justify  yourself  to  others,  you  may  be  sure  you  will  plead 
falsely.  If  you  fail,  you  have  the  shame  of  the  failure;  if  you  succeed, 
you  will  have  made  too  much  of  it,  and  be  unjustly  esteemed  upon 
the  other  side.  (4)  You  have  perhaps  only  one  friend  in  the  world,  in 
whose  esteem  it  is  worth  while  for  you  to  right  yourself.  Justification 
to  indifferent  persons  is,  at  best,  an  impertinent  intrusion.  Let  them 
think  what  they  please;  they  will  be  the  more  likely  to  forgive  you  in 
the  end.  (5)  It  is  a  question  hard  to  be  resolved,  whether  you  should 
at  any  time  criminate  another  to  defend  yourself.  I  have  done  it 
many  times,  and  always  had  a  troubled  conscience  for  my  pains. 

II.  Parent  and  Child. — (i)  The  love  of  parents  for  their  children  is, 
of  all  natural  affections,  the  most  ill-starred.  It  is  not  a  love  for  the 
person,  since  it  begins  before  the  person  has  come  into  the  world,  and 
founds  on  an  imaginary  character  and  looks.  Thus  it  is  foredoomed 
to  disappointment ;  and  because  the  parent  either  looks  for  too  much, 
or  at  least  for  something  inappropriate,  at  his  offspring's  hands,  it  is  too 
often  insufficiently  repaid.  The  natural  bond,  besides,  is  stronger 
from  parent  to  child  than  from  child  to  parent ;  and  it  is  the  side  which 
confers  benefits,  not  which  receives  them,  that  thinks  most  of  a  rela- 
tion. (2)  What  do  we  owe  our  parents  ?  No  man  can  owe  love ; 
>none  can  owe  obedience.     We  owe,  I  think,  chiefly  pity ;  for  we  are 

622 


ADDENDA 

tlie  pledge  of  their  dear  and  joyful  union,  we  have  Deen  the  solicitude 
of  their  days  and  the  anxiety  of  their  nights,  we  have  made  them, 
though  by  no  will  of  ours,  to  carry  the  burthen  of  our  sins,  sorrows, 
and  physical  infirmities ;  and  too  many  of  us  grow  up  at  length  to 
disappoint  the  purpose  of  their  lives  and  requite  their  care  and  piety 
with  cruel  pangs.  (3)  Mater  Dolorosa.  It  is  the  particular  cross  of 
parents  that  when  the  child  grows  up  and  becomes  himself  instead 
of  that  pale  ideal  they  had  preconceived,  they  must  accuse  their  own 
harshness  or  indulgence  for  this  natural  result.  They  have  all  been 
like  the  duck  and  hatched  swan's  eggs,  or  the  other  way  about ;  yet 
they  tell  themselves  with  miserable  penitence  that  the  blame  lies  with 
them ;  and  had  they  sat  more  closely,  the  swan  would  have  been  a 
duck,  and  home-keeping,  in  spite  of  all.  (4)  A  good  son,  who  can  fulfil 
what  is  expected  of  him,  has  done  his  work  in  life.  He  has  to  redeem 
the  sins  of  many,  and  restore  the  world's  confidence  in  children. 

III.  Dialogue  on  Character  and  Destiny  between  Two  Puppets. — 
At  the  end  of  Chapter  xxxiii.  Count  Spada  and  the  General  of  the  Jesuits 
^vere  left  alone  in  the  pavilion,  while  the  course  of  the  story  was  turned 
upon  the  doings  of  the  virtuous  hero.  Profiting  by  this  moment  of  pri- 
vacy, the  Jesuit  turned  with  a  very  warning  countenance  upon  the  peer. 

"  Have  a  care,  my  lord,"  said  he,  raising  a  finger.  "  You  are  already 
no  favourite  with  the  author;  and  for  my  part,  I  begin  to  perceive  from 
a  thousand  evidences  that  the  narrative  is  drawing  near  a  close.  Yet 
a  chapter  or  two  at  most,  and  you  will  be  overtaken  by  some  sudden 
and  appalling  judgment." 

"  I  despise  your  womanish  presentiments,"  replied  Spada,  '*  and 
count  firmly  upon  another  volume;  I  see  a  variety  of  reasons  why  my 
life  should  be  prolonged  to  within  a  few  pages  of  the  end;  indeed,  I 
permit  myself  to  expect  resurrection  in  a  sequel,  or  second  part.  You 
will  scarce  suggest  that  there  can  be  any  end  to  the  newspaper;  and 
you  will  certainly  never  convince  me  that  the  author,  who  cannot  be 
entirely  without  sense,  would  have  been  at  so  great  pains  with  my 
intelligence,  gallant  exterior,  and  happy  and  natural  speech,  merely  to 
kick  me  hither  and  thither  for  two  or  three  paltry  chapters  and  then 
drop  me  at  the  end  like  a  dumb  personage.  I  know  you  priests  are 
often  infidels  in  secret.     Pray,  do  you  believe  in  an  author  at  all  ?  " 

"Many  do  not,  I  am  aware,"  replied  the  General,  softly;  "  even  in 
the  last  chapter  we  encountered  one,  the  self-righteous  David  Hume, 

62^ 


ADDENDA 

who  goes  so  far  as  to  doubt  the  existence  of  the  newspaper  in  which 
our  adventures  are  now  appearing;  but  it  would  neither  become  my 
cloth,  nor  do  credit  to  my  great  experience,  were  I  to  meddle  with  these 
dangerous  opinions.  My  alarm  for  you  is  not  metaphysical,  it  is  moral 
in  its  origin :  You  must  be  aware,  my  poor  friend,  that  you  are  a  very 
bad  character— the  worst,  indeed,  that  I  have  met  with  in  these  pages. 
The  author  hates  you.  Count;  and  difficult  as  it  may  be  to  connect  the 
idea  of  immortality— or,  in  plain  terms,  of  a  sequel— with  the  paper 
and  printer's  ink  of  which  your  humanity  is  made,  it  is  yet  more  diffi- 
cult to  foresee  anything  but  punishment  and  pain  for  one  who  is  justly 
hateful  in  the  eyes  of  his  creator." 

"  You  take  for  granted  many  things  that  I  shall  not  be  easily  persuaded 
to  allow,"  replied  the  villain.  "  Do  you  really  so  far  deceive  yourself 
in  your  imagination  as  to  fancy  that  the  author  is  a  friend  to  good? 
Read;  read  the  book  in  which  you  figure;  and  you  will  soon  disown 
such  crude  vulgarities.  Lelio  is  a  good  character;  yet  only  two  chap- 
ters ago  we  left  him  in  a  fine  predicament.  His  old  servant  was  a 
model  of  the  virtues,  yet  did  he  not  miserably  perish  in  that  ambuscade 
upon  the  road  to  Poitiers?  And  as  for  the  family  of  the  bankrupt 
merchant,  how  is  it  possible  for  greater  moral  qualities  to  be  alive  with 
more  irremediable  misfortunes?  And  yet  you  continue  to  misrepresent 
an  author  to  yourself,  as  a  deity  devoted  to  virtue  and  inimical  to  vice? 
Pray,  if  you  have  no  pride  in  your  intellectual  credit  for  yourself,  spare 
at  least  the  sensibilities  of  your  associates." 

"The  purposes  of  the  serial  story,"  answered  the  Priest,  "are, 
doubtless  for  some  wise  reason,  hidden  from  those  who  act  in  it.  To 
this  limitation  we  must  bow.  But  I  ask  every  character  to  observe  nar- 
rowly his  own  personal  relations  to  the  author.  There,  if  nowhere  else, 
we  may  glean  some  hint  of  his  superior  designs.  Now  I  am  myself  a 
mingled  personage,  liable  to  doubts,  to  scruples,  and  to  sudden  revul- 
sions of  feeling;  I  reason  continually  about  life,  and  frequently  the 
result  of  my  reasoning  is  to  condemn  or  even  to  change  my  action.  I 
am  now  convinced,  for  example,  that  I  did  wrong  in  joining  your  plot 
against  the  innocent  and  most  unfortunate  Lelio.  I  told  you  so,  you 
will  remember,  in  the  chapter  which  has  just  been  concluded;  and 
though  1  do  not  know  whether  you  perceived  the  ardour  and  fluency 
with  which  I  expressed  myself,  I  am  still  confident  in  my  own  heart 
that  I  spoke  at  that  moment  not  only  with  the  warm  approval,  but 

624 


ADDENDA 

under  the  direct  inspiration,  of  the  author  of  the  tale.  I  know,  Spada, 
I  tell  you  I  know  that  he  loved  me  as  I  uttered  these  words;  and  yet 
at  other  periods  of  my  career  I  have  been  conscious  of  his  indifference 
and  dislike.  You  must  not  seek  to  reason  me  from  this  conviction;  for 
it  is  supplied  me  from  higher  authority  than  that  of  reason,  and  is, 
indeed,  a  part  of  my  experience.  It  may  be  an  illusion  that  I  drove 
last  night  from  Saumur;  it  may  be  an  illusion  that  we  are  now  in  the 
garden  chamber  of  the  chateau ;  it  may  be  an  illusion  that  I  am  con- 
versing with  Count  Spada;  you  may  be  an  illusion,  Count,  yourself; 
but  of  three  things  I  will  remain  eternally  persuaded,  that  the  author 
exists  not  only  in  the  newspaper  but  in  my  own  heart,  that  he  loves  me 
when  1  do  well,  and  that  he  hates  and  despises  me  when  I  do  otherwise." 
"  I  too  believe  in  the  author,"  returned  the  Count.  "  I  believe  like- 
wise in  a  sequel,  written  in  finer  style  and  probably  cast  in  a  still 
higher  rank  of  society  than  the  present  story;  although  I  am  not  con- 
vinced that  we  shall  then  be  conscious  of  our  pre-existence  here.  So 
much  of  your  argument  is,  therefore,  beside  the  mark;  for  to  a  certain 
point  I  am  as  orthodox  as  yourself.  But  where  you  begin  to  draw 
general  conclusions  from  your  own  private  experience,  I  must  beg 
pointedly  and  finally  to  differ.  You  will  not  have  forgotten,  I  believe, 
my  daring  and  single-handed  butchery  of  the  five  secret  witnesses  ? 
Nor  the  sleight  of  mind  and  dexterity  of  language  with  which  I  sep- 
arated Lelio  from  the  merchant's  family  ?  These  were  not  virtuous 
actions;  and  yet,  how  am  1  to  tell  you  ?  I  was  conscious  of  a  troubled 
joy,  a  glee,  a  hellish  gusto  in  my  author's  bosom,  which  seemed  to 
renew  my  vigour  with  every  sentence,  and  which  has  indeed  made  the 
first  of  these  passages  accepted  for  a  model  of  spirited  narrative  de- 
scription, and  the  second  for  a  masterpiece  of  wickedness  and  wit. 
What  result,  then,  can  be  drawn  from  two  experiences  so  contrary  as 
yours  and  mine  ?  For  my  part,  I  lay  it  down  as  a  principle,  no  author 
can  be  moral  in  a  merely  human  sense.  And,  to  pursue  the  argument 
higher,  how  can  you,  for  one  instant,  suppose  the  existence  of  free- 
will in  puppets  situated  as  we  are  in  the  thick  of  a  novel  which  we  do 
not  even  understand?  And  how,  without  free-will  upon  our  parts, 
can  you  justify  blame  or  approval  on  that  of  the  author  ?  We  are  in 
his  hands;  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen,  to  speak  reverently,  he  made  us 
what  we  are;  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen  he  can  utterly  undo  and  trans- 
mute what  he  has  made.     In  the  very  next  chapter,  my  dear  General, 

625 


ADDENDA 

you  may  be  shown  up  for  an  impostor,  or  I  be  stricken  down  in  the 
tears  of  penitence  and  hurried  into  the  retirement  of  a  monastery! " 

"  You  use  an  argument  old  as  mankind,  and  difficult  of  answer," 
said  the  Priest.  "  I  cannot  justify  the  free-will  of  which  I  am  usually 
conscious;  nor  will  I  ever  seek  to  deny  that  this  consciousness  is  inter- 
rupted. Sometimes  events  mount  upon  me  with  such  swiftness  and 
pressure  that  my  choice  is  overwhelmed,  and  even  to  myself  I  seem  to 
obey  a  will  external  to  my  own;  and  again  I  am  sometimes  so  para- 
lysed and  impotent  between  alternatives  that  I  am  tempted  to  imagine 
a  hesitation  on  the  part  of  my  author.  But  1  contend,  upon  the  other 
hand,  for  a  limited  free-will  in  the  sphere  of  consciousness;  and  as  it 
is  in  and  by  my  consciousness  that  I  exist  to  myself,  I  will  not  go  on 
to  inquire  whether  that  free-will  is  valid  as  against  the  author,  the 
newspaper,  or  even  the  readers  of  the  story.  And  I  contend,  further, 
for  a  sort  of  empire  or  independence  of  our  own  characters  when  once 
created,  which  the  author  cannot  or  at  least  does  not  choose  to  violate. 
Hence  Lelio  was  conceived  upright,  honest,  courageous,  and  headlong; 
to  that  first  idea  all  his  acts  and  speeches  must  of  necessity  continue  to 
answer;  and  the  same,  though  with  such  different  defects  and  quali- 
ties, applies  to  you,  Count  Spada,  and  to  myself.  We  must  act  up 
to  our  characters;  it  is  these  characters  that  the  author  loves  or  de- 
spises; it  is  on  account  of  them  that  we  must  suffer  or  triumph,  whether 
in  this  work  or  in  a  sequel.     Such  is  my  belief." 

"  It  is  pure  Calvinistic  election,  my  dear  sir,  and,  by  your  leave,  a 
very  heretical  position  for  a  churchman  to  support,"  replied  the  Count. 
**  Nor  can  I  see  how  it  removes  the  difficulty.  I  was  not  consulted  as 
to  my  character;  I  might  have  chosen  to  be  Lelio;  I  might  have 
chosen  to  be  yourself;  I  might  even  have  preferred  to  figure  in  a  differ- 
ent romance,  or  not  to  enter  into  the  world  of  literature  at  all.  And 
am  I  to  be  blamed  or  hated,  because  some  one  else  wilfully  and  in- 
humanely made  me  what  I  am,  and  has  continued  ever  since  to 
encourage  me  in  what  are  called  my  vices  ?  You  may  say  what  you 
please,  my  dear  sir,  but  if  that  is  the  case,  I  had  rather  be  a  telegram 
from  the  seat  of  war  than  a  reasonable  and  conscious  character  in  a 
romance;  nay,  and  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  repudiate,  loathe,  curse, 
and  utterly  condemn  the  ruffian  who  calls  himself  the  author." 

**You  have,  as  you  say,  a  perfect  right,"  replied  the  Jesuit;  "and 
1  am  convinced  that  it  will  not  affect  him  in  the  least." 

626 


ADDENDA 

"  He  shall  have  one  slave  the  fewer  for  me,"  added  the  Count.  "I 
discard  my  allegiance  once  for  all." 

"  As  you  please,"  concluded  the  other  ;  '*  but  at  least  be  ready,  for 
I  perceive  we  are  about  to  enter  on  the  scene." 

And  indeed,  just  at  that  moment.  Chapter  xxxiv.  being  completed, 
Chapter  xxxv.,  "The  Count's  Chastisement,"  began  to  appear  in  the 
columns  of  the  newspaper. 

IV.  Solitude  and  Society. —  (i)  A  little  society  is  needful  to  show  a 
man  his  failings;  for  if  he  lives  entirely  by  himself,  he  has  no  occasion 
to  fall,  and,  like  a  soldier  in  time  of  peace,  becomes  both  weak  and 
vain.  But  a  little  solitude  must  be  used,  or  we  grow  content  with 
current  virtues  and  forget  the  ideal.  In  society  we  lose  scrupulous 
brightness  of  honour;  in  solitude  we  lose  the  courage  necessary  to 
face  our  own  imperfections.  (2)  As  a  question  of  pleasure,  after  a 
man  has  reached  a  certain  age,  I  can  hardly  perceive  much  room  to 
choose  between  them:  each  is  in  away  delightful,  and  each  will  please 
best  after  an  experience  of  the  other.  (3)  But  solitude  for  its  own 
sake  should  surely  never  be  preferred.  We  are  bound  by  the  strongest 
obligations  to  busy  ourselves  amid  the  world  of  men,  if  it  be  only  to 
crack  jokes.  The  finest  trait  in  the  character  of  St.  Paul  was  his  readi- 
ness to  be  damned  for  the  salvation  of  anybody  else.  And  surely  we 
should  all  endure  a  little  weariness  to  make  one  face  look  brighter  or 
one  hour  go  more  pleasantly  in  this  mixed  world.  (4)  It  is  our  busi- 
ness here  to  speak,  for  it  is  by  the  tongue  that  we  multiply  ourselves 
most  influentially.  To  speak  kindly,  wisely,  and  pleasantly  is  the 
first  of  duties,  the  easiest  of  duties,  and  the  duty  that  is  most  blessed 
in  its  performance.  For  it  is  natural,  it  whiles  away  life,  it  spreads  in- 
telligence; and  it  increases  the  acquaintance  of  man  with  man.  (5) 
It  is,  besides,  a  good  investment,  for  while  all  other  pleasures  decay, 
and  even  the  delight  in  nature.  Grandfather  William  is  still  bent  to 
gossip.  (6)  Solitude  is  the  climax  of  the  negative  virtues.  When 
we  go  to  bed  after  a  solitary  day  we  can  tell  ourselves  that  we  have 
not  been  unkind  nor  dishonest  nor  untruthful;  and  the  negative  vir- 
tues are  agreeable  to  that  dangerous  faculty  we  call  the  conscience. 
That  they  should  ever  be  admitted  for  a  part  of  virtue  is  what  I 
cannot  explain.  I  do  not  care  two  straws  for  all  the  nots,  (7)  The 
positive  virtues  are  imperfect;  they  are  even  ugly  in  their  imperfection  : 
for  man's  acts,  by  the  necessity  of  his  being,  are  coarse  and  mingled. 

627 


ADDENDA       - 

The  kindest,  in  the  course  of  a  day  of  active  kindnesses,  will  say  some 
things  rudely,  and  do  some  things  cruelly;  the  most  honourable,  per- 
haps, trembles  at  his  nearness  to  a  doubtful  act.  (8)  Hence  the  solitary 
recoils  from  the  practice  of  life,  shocked  by  its  unsightliness.  But  if  \ 
could  only  retain  that  superfine  and  guiding  delicacy  of  the  sense  that 
grows  in  solitude,  and  still  combine  with  it  that  courage  of  perform- 
ance which  is  never  abashed  by  any  failure,  but  steadily  pursues  its 
right  and  human  design  in  a  scene  of  imperfection,  I  might  hope  to 
strike  in  the  long  run  a  conduct  more  tender  to  others  and  less  humili- 
ating to  myself. 

V.  Selfishness  and  Egoism. — An  unconscious,  easy,  selfish  person 
shocks  less,  and  is  more  easily  loved,  than  one  who  is  laboriously  and 
egoistically  unselfish.  There  is  at  least  no  fuss  about  the  first;  but  the 
other  parades  his  sacrifices,  and  so  sells  his  favours  too  dear.  Selfish- 
ness is  calm,  a  force  of  nature:  you  might  say  the  trees  were  selfish. 
But  egoism  is  a  piece  of  vanity;  it  must  always  take  you  into  its  con- 
fidence; it  is  uneasy,  troublesome,  seeking;  it  can  do  good,  but  not 
handsomely;  it  is  uglier,  because  less  dignified,  than  selfishness  itself. 
But  here  1  perhaps  exaggerate  to  myself,  because  1  am  the  one  more 
than  the  other,  and  feel  it  like  a  hook  in  my  mouth,  at  every  step  I  take. 
Do  what  1  will,  this  seems  to  spoil  all. 

VI.  Right  and  JVrong. — It  is  the  mark  of  a  good  action  that  it 
appears  inevitable  in  the  retrospect.  We  should  have  been  cut-throats 
to  do  otherwise.  And  there  's  an  end.  We  ought  to  know  distinctly 
that  we  are  damned  for  what  we  do  wrong;  but  when  we  have  done 
right,  we  have  only  been  gentlemen,  after  all.  There  is  nothing  to 
make  a  work  about. 

VII.  Discipline  of  Conscience. — (i)  Never  allow  your  mind  to 
dwell  on  your  own  misconduct;  that  is  ruin.  The  conscience  has  mor- 
bid sensibilities;  it  must  be  employed  but  not  indulged,  like  the  ima- 
gination or  the  stomach.  (2)  Let  each  stab  suffice  for  the  occasion;  to 
play  with  this  spiritual  pain  turns  to  penance;  and  a  person  easily  learns 
to  feel  good  by  dallying  with  the  consciousness  of  having  done  wrong, 
(3)  Shut  your  eyes  hard  against  the  recollection  of  your  sins.  Do  not 
be  afraid,  you  will  not  be  able  to  forget  them.  (4)  You  will  always  do 
wrong:  you  must  try  to  get  used  to  that,  my  son.  It  is  a  small  mat- 
ter to  make  a  work  about,  when  all  the  world  is  in  the  same  case.  I 
meant  when  I  was  a  young  man  to  write  a  great  poem;  and  now  I  am 

628 


ADDENDA 

cobbling  little  prose  articles  and  in  excellent  good  spirits,  I  thank  you. 
So,  too,  I  meant  to  lead  a  life  that  should  keep  mounting  from  the 
first;  and  though  I  have  been  repeatedly  down  again  below  sea-level, 
and  am  scarce  higher  than  when  I  started,  I  am  as  keen  as  ever  for  that 
enterprise.  Our  business  in  this  world  is  not  to  succeed,  but  to  con- 
tinue to  fail,  in  good  spirits.  (5)  There  is  but  one  test  of  a  good  life: 
that  the  man  shall  continue  to  grow  more  difficult  about  his  own 
behaviour.  That  is  to  be  good:  there  is  no  other  virtue  attainable. 
The  virtues  we  admire  in  the  saint  and  the  hero  are  the  fruits  of  a  happy 
constitution.  You,  for  your  part,  must  not  think  you  will  ever  be  a 
good  man,  for  these  are  born  and  not  made.  You  will  have  your  own 
reward,  if  you  keep  on  growing  better  than  you  were— how  do  I  say? 
if  you  do  not  keep  on  growing  worse.  (6)  A  man  is  one  thing,  and 
must  be  exercised  in  all  his  faculties.  Whatever  side  of  you  is  neglected, 
whether  it  is  the  muscles,  or  the  taste  for  art,  or  the  desire  for  virtue, 

that  which  is  cultivated  will  suffer  in  proportion.    was  greatly 

tempted,  I  remember,  to  do  a  very  dishonest  act,  in  order  that  he  might 
pursue  his  studies  in  art.  When  he  consulted  me,  I  advised  him  not 
(putting  it  that  way  for  once),  because  his  art  would  suffer.  (7)  It 
might  be  fancied  that  if  we  could  only  study  all  sides  of  our  being  in 
an  exact  proportion,  we  should  attain  wisdom.  But  in  truth  a  chief 
part  of  education  is  to  exercise  one  set  of  faculties  a  outrance— one, 
since  we  have  not  the  time  so  to  practise  all;  thus  the  dilettante  misses 
the  kernel  of  the  matter;  and  the  man  who  has  wrung  forth  the  secret 
of  one  part  of  life  knows  more  about  the  others  than  he  who  has  tep- 
idly circumnavigated  all.  (8)  Thus,  one  must  be  your  profession,  the 
rest  can  only  be  your  delights ;  and  virtue  had  better  be  kept  for  the 
latter,  for  it  enters  into  all,  but  none  enters  by  necessity  into  it.  You 
will  learn  a  great  deal  of  virtue  by  studying  any  art;  but  nothing  of 
any  art  in  the  study  of  virtue.  (9)  The  study  of  conduct  has  to  do 
with  grave  problems;  not  every  action  should  be  higgled  over;  one  of 
the  leading  virtues  therein  is  to  let  oneself  alone.  But  if  you  make  it 
your  chief  employment,  you  are  sure  to  meddle  too  much.  This  is  the 
great  error  of  those  who  are  called  pious.  Although  the  war  of  virtue 
be  unending  except  with  life,  hostilities  are  frequently  suspended,  and 
the  troops  go  into  winter  quarters;  but  the  pious  will  not  profit  by  these 
times  of  truce;  where  their  conscience  can  perceive  no  sin,  they  will 
find  a  sin  in  that  very  innocency;  and  so  they  pervert,  to  their  annoy- 

629 


ADDENDA 

ance,  those  seasons  which  God  gives  to  us  for  repose  and  a  reward, 
(lo)  The  nearest  approximation  to  sense  in  all  this  matter  lies  with  the 
Quakers,  There  must  be  no  wt7/- worship ;  how  much  more,  no  will- 
repentance.  The  damnable  consequences  of  set  seasons,  even  for 
prayer,  is  to  have  a  man  continually  posturing  to  himself,  till  his  con- 
science is  taught  as  many  tricks  as  a  pet  monkey,  and  the  gravest 
expressions  are  left  with  a  perverted  meaning,  (i  i)  For  my  part,  I 
should  try  to  secure  some  part  of  every  day  for  meditation,  above  all  in 
the  early  morning  and  the  open  air;  but  how  that  time  was  to  be  im- 
proved I  should  leave  to  circumstance  and  the  inspiration  of  the  hour. 
Nor  if  I  spent  it  in  whistling  or  numbering  my  footsteps,  should  I  con- 
sider it  misspent  for  that.  I  should  have  given  my  conscience  a  fair 
field ;  when  it  has  anything  to  say,  I  know  too  well  it  can  speak  dag- 
gers; therefore,  for  this  time,  my  hard  taskmaster  has  given  me  a  holy 
day,  and  I  may  go  in  again  rejoicing  to  my  breakfast  and  the  human 
business  of  the  day. 

VIII.  Gratitude  to  God.—{i)  To  the  gratitude  that  becomes  us  in 
this  life,  I  can  set  no  limit.  Though  we  steer  after  a  fashion,  yet  we 
must  sail  according  to  the  winds  and  currents.  After  what  I  have 
done,  what  might  I  not  have  done  ?  That  I  have  still  the  courage  to 
attempt  my  life,  that  I  am  not  now  overladen  with  dishonours,  to 
whom  do  I  owe  it  but  to  the  gentle  ordering  of  circumstances  in  the 
great  design?  More  has  not  been  done  to  me  than  I  can  bear;  I  have 
been  marvellously  restrained  and  helped:  not  unto  us,  O  Lord!  (2) 
I  cannot  forgive  God  for  the  suffering  of  others;  when  I  look  abroad 
upon  His  world  and  behold  its  cruel  destinies,  I  turn  from  Him  with 
disaffection;  nor  do  I  conceive  that  He  will  blame  me  for  the  impulse. 
But  when  I  consider  my  own  fates,  I  grow  conscious  of  His  gentle 
dealing:  I  see  Him  chastise  with  helpful  blows,  I  feel  His  stripes  to  be 
caresses;  and  this  knowledge  is  my  comfort  that  reconciles  me  to  the 
world.  (3)  All  those  whom  I  now  pity  with  indignation  are  perhaps 
not  less  fatherly  dealt  with  than  myself  I  do  right  to  be  angry :  yet 
they,  perhaps,  if  they  lay  aside  heat  and  temper,  and  reflect  with  pa- 
tience on  their  lot,  may  find  everywhere,  in  their  worst  trials,  the 
same  proofs  of  a  divine  affection.  (4)  While  we  have  little  to  try  us, 
we  are  angry  with  little;  small  annoyances  do  not  bear  their  justifica- 
tion on  their  faces;  but  when  we  are  overtaken  by  a  great  sorrow  or 
perplexity,  the  greatness  of  our  concern  sobers  us  so  that  we  see  more 

630 


ADDENDA 

clearly  and  think  with  more  consideration.  I  speak  for  myself;  no 
thing  grave  has  yet  befallen  me  but  1  have  been  able  to  reconcile  my 
mind  to  its  occurrence,  and  see  in  it,  from  my  own  little  and  partial 
point  of  view,  an  evidence  of  a  tender  and  protecting  God.  Even  the 
misconduct  into  which  I  have  been  led  has  been  blessed  to  my  im- 
provement. If  I  did  not  sin,  and  that  so  glaringly  that  my  conscience 
is  convicted  on  the  spot,  I  do  not  know  what  1  should  become,  but  I 
feel  sure  I  should  grow  worse.  The  man  of  very  regular  conduct  is 
too  often  a  prig,  if  he  be  not  worse— a  rabbi.  I,  for  my  part,  want 
to  be  startled  out  of  my  conceits;  I  want  to  be  put  to  shame  in  my 
own  eyes;  1  want  to  feel  the  bridle  in  my  mouth,  and  be  continually 
reminded  of  my  own  weakness  and  the  omnipotence  of  circumstances. 
(5)  If  I  from  my  spy-hole,  looking  with  purblind  eyes  upon  the  least 
part  of  a  fraction  of  the  universe,  yet  perceive  in  my  own  destiny  some 
broken  evidences  of  a  plan  and  some  signals  of  an  overruling  good- 
ness; shall  1  then  be  so  mad  as  to  complain  that  all  cannot  be  de- 
ciphered ?  Shall  1  not  rather  wonder,  with  infinite  and  grateful  surprise, 
that  in  so  vast  a  scheme  1  seem  to  have  been  able  to  read,  however 
little,  and  that  that  little  was  encouraging  to  faith  ? 

IX.  Blame. —  What  comes  from  without  and  what  comes  from 
within,  how  much  of  conduct  proceeds  from  the  spirit  or  how  much 
from  circumstances,  what  is  the  part  of  choice  and  what  the  part  of 
the  selection  offered,  where  personal  character  begins  or  where,  if  any- 
where, it  escapes  at  all  from  the  authority  of  nature,  these  are  ques- 
tions of  curiosity  and  eternally  indifferent  to  right  and  wrong.  Our 
theory  of  blame  is  utterly  sophisticated  and  untrue  to  man's  expe- 
rience. We  are  as  much  ashamed  of  a  pimpled  face  that  came  to  us 
by  natural  descent  as  of  one  that  we  have  earned  by  our  excesses, 
and  rightly  so;  since  the  two  cases,  in  so  much  as  they  unfit  us  for 
the  easier  sort  of  pleasing  and  put  an  obstacle  in  the  path  of  love,  are 
exactly  equal  in  their  consequences.  We  look  aside  from  the  true  ques- 
tion. We  cannot  blame  others  at  all;  we  can  only  punish  them;  and 
ourselves  we  blame  indifferently  for  a  deliberate  crime,  a  thoughtless 
brusquerie,  or  an  act  done  without  volition  in  an  ecstasy  of  madness. 
We  blame  ourselves  from  two  considerations:  first,  because  another  has 
suffered;  and  second,  because,  in  so  far  as  we  have  again  done  wrong, 
we  can  look  forward  with  the  less  confidence  to  what  remains  of  our 
career.     Shall  we  repent  this  failure?    It  is  there  that  the  consciousness 

631 


ADDENDA 

of  sin  most  cruelly  affects  us;  it  is  in  view  of  this  that  a  man  cries  out, 
in  exaggeration,  that  his  heart  is  desperately  wicked  and  deceitful  above 
all  things.  We  all  tacitly  subscribe  this  judgment:  Woe  unto  him  by 
whom  offences  shall  come!  We  accept  palliations  for  our  neighbours; 
we  dare  not,  in  the  sight  of  our  own  soul,  accept  them  for  ourselves. 
We  may  not  be  to  blame;  we  may  be  conscious  of  no  free-will  in  the 
matter,  of  a  possession,  on  the  other  hand,  of  an  irresistible  tyranny  of 
circumstances,— yet  we  know,  in  another  sense,  we  are  to  blame  for  all. 
Our  right  to  live,  to  eat,  to  share  in  mankind's  pleasures,  lies  pre- 
cisely in  this :  that  we  must  be  persuaded  we  can  on  the  whole  live 
rather  beneficially  than  hurtfully  to  others.  Remove  this  persuasion, 
and  the  man  has  lost  his  right.  That  persuasion  is  our  dearest  jewel, 
to  which  we  must  sacrifice  the  life  itself  to  which  it  entitles  us.  For 
it  is  better  to  be  dead  than  degraded. 

X.  Marriage. — (i)  No  considerate  man  can  approach  marriage 
without  deep  concern.  1,  he  will  think,  who  have  made  hitherto  so 
poor  a  business  of  my  own  life,  am  now  about  to  embrace  the  respon- 
sibility of  another's.  Henceforth,  there  shall  be  two  to  suffer  from  my 
faults;  and  that  other  is  the  one  whom  I  most  desire  to  shield  from 
suffering.  In  view  of  our  impotence  and  folly,  it  seems  an  act  of  pre- 
sumption to  involve  another's  destiny  with  ours.  We  should  hesitate 
to  assume  command  of  an  army  or  a  trading-smack;  shall  we  not 
hesitate  to  become  surety  for  the  life  and  happiness,  now  and  hence- 
forward, of  our  dearest  friend  ?  To  be  nobody's  enemy  but  one's  own, 
although  it  is  never  possible  to  any,  can  least  of  all  be  possible  to  one 
who  is  married.  (2)  I  would  not  so  much  fear  to  give  hostages  to  for- 
tune, if  fortune  ruled  only  in  material  things;  but  fortune,  as  we  call 
those  minor  and  more  inscrutable  workings  of  providence,  rules  also  in 
the  sphere  of  conduct.  I  am  not  so  blind  but  that  I  know  I  might  be 
a  murderer  or  even  a  traitor  to-morrow;  and  now,  as  if  I  were  not 
already  too  feelingly  alive  to  my  misdeeds,  I  must  choose  out  the  one 
person  whom  1  most  desire  to  please,  and  make  her  the  daily  witness 
of  my  failures,  I  must  give  a  part  in  all  my  dishonours  to  the  one 
person  who  can  feel  them  more  keenly  than  myself.  (3)  In  all  our 
daring,  magnanimous  human  way  of  life,  I  find  nothing  more  bold  than 
this.  To  go  into  battle  is  but  a  small  thing  by  comparison.  It  is  the 
last  act  of  committal.  After  that,  there  is  no  way  left,  not  even  suicide, 
but  to  be  a  good  man.     (4)  She  will  help  you,  let  us  pray.     And  yef 

63a 


ADDENDA 

she  is  in  the  same  case;  she,  too,  has  daily  made  shipwreck  of  her  own 
happiness  and  worth;  it  is  with  a  courage  no  less  irrational  than  yours, 
that  she  also  ventures  on  this  new  experiment  of  life.  Two  who  have 
failed  severally  now  join  their  fortunes  with  a  wavering  hope.  (5)  But 
it  is  from  the  boldness  of  the  enterprise  that  help  springs.  To  take 
home  to  your  hearth  that  living  witness  whose  blame  will  most  affect 
you,  to  eat,  to  sleep,  to  live  with  your  most  admiring  and  thence  most 
exacting  judge,  is  not  this  to  domesticate  the  living  God  ?  Each  be- 
comes a  conscience  to  the  other,  legible  like  a  clock  upon  the  chim- 
ney-piece. Each  offers  to  his  mate  a  figure  of  the  consequence  of 
human  acts.  And  while  I  may  still  continue  by  my  inconsiderate  or 
violent  life  to  spread  far-reaching  havoc  throughout  man's  confederacy, 
I  can  do  so  no  more,  at  least,  in  ignorance  and  levity;  one  face  shall 
wince  before  me  in  the  flesh ;  I  have  taken  home  the  sorrows  I  create 
to  my  own  hearth  and  bed;  and  though  I  continue  to  sin,  it  must  be 
now  with  open  eyes. 

XI.  Idleness  and  Industry. —  I  remember  a  time  when  I  was  very 
idle;  and  lived  and  profited  by  that  humour.  I  have  no  idea  why  I 
ceased  to  be  so,  yet  I  scarce  believe  I  have  the  power  to  return  to  it ; 
it  is  a  change  of  age.  I  made  consciously  a  thousand  little  efforts, 
but  the  determination  from  which  these  arose  came  to  me  while  1 
slept  and  in  the  way  of  growth.  I  have  had  a  thousand  skirmishes 
to  keep  myself  at  work  upon  particular  mornings,  and  sometimes 
the  affair  was  hot;  but  of  that  great  change  of  campaign,  which  de- 
cided all  this  part  of  my  life,  and  turned  me  from  one  whose  business 
was  to  shirk  into  one  whose  business  was  to  strive  and  persevere, — 
it  seems  as  though  all  that  had  been  done  by  some  one  else.  The 
life  of  Goethe  affected  me;  so  did  that  of  Balzac;  and  some  very  noble 
remarks  by  the  latter  in  a  pretty  bad  book,  the  Cousine  Bette.  I  dare 
say  I  could  trace  some  other  influences  in  the  change.  All  I  mean  is, 
I  was  never  conscious  of  a  struggle,  nor  registered  a  vow,  nor  seemingly 
had  anything  personally  to  do  with  the  matter.  I  came  about  like  a 
well-handled  ship.  There  stood  at  the  wheel  that  unknown  steersman 
whom  we  call  God. 

XII.  Courage. —  Courage  is  the  principal  virtue,  for  all  the  others 
presuppose  it.  If  you  are  afraid,  you  may  do  anything.  Courage  is 
to  be  cultivated,  and  some  of  the  negative  virtues  may  be  sacrificed  in 
the  cultivation. 

635 


ADDENDA 

XIII.  Results  of  Action. — ^The  result  is  the  reward  of  actions,  not  the 
test.  The  result  is  a  child  born;  if  it  be  beautiful  and  healthy,  well:  if 
club-footed  or  crook-back,  perhaps  well  also.    We  cannot  direct  .  .  . 

[1878?] 


THE  IDEAL  HOUSE 

Two  things  are  necessary  in  any  neighbourhood  where  we  propose 
to  spend  a  life :  a  desert  and  some  living  water. 

There  are  many  parts  of  the  earth's  surface  which  offer  the  necessary 
combination  of  a  certain  wildness  with  a  kindly  variety.  A  great 
prospect  is  desirable,  but  the  want  may  be  otherwise  supplied;  even 
greatness  can  be  found  on  the  small  scale;  for  the  mind  and  eye  mea- 
sure differently.  Bold  rocks  near  at  hand  are  more  inspiriting  than 
distant  Alps,  and  the  thick  fern  upon  a  Surrey  heath  makes  a  fine 
forest  for  the  imagination,  and  the  dotted  yew-trees  noble  mountains. 
A  Scottish  moor  with  birches  and  firs  grouped  here  and  there  upon  a 
knoll,  or  one  of  those  rocky  sea-side  deserts  of  Provence  overgrown 
with  rosemary  and  thyme  and  smoking  with  aroma,  are  places  where 
the  mind  is  never  weary.  Forests,  being  more  enclosed,  are  not  at  first 
sight  so  attractive,  but  they  exercise  a  spell;  they  must,  however,  be 
diversified  with  either  heath  or  rock,  and  are  hardly  to  be  considered 
perfect  without  conifers.  Even  sand-hills,  with  their  intricate  plan, 
and  their  gulls  and  rabbits,  will  stand  well  for  the  necessary  desert. 

The  house  must  be  within  hail  of  either  a  little  river  or  the  sea.  A 
great  river  is  more  fit  for  poetry  than  to  adorn  a  neighbourhood;  its 
sweep  of  waters  increases  the  scale  of  the  scenery  and  the  distance  of 
one  notable  object  from  another;  and  a  lively  burn  gives  us,  in  the 
space  of  a  few  yards,  a  greater  variety  of  promontory  and  islet,  of  cas- 
cade, shallow  goil,  and  boiling  pool,  with  answerable  changes  both 
of  song  and  colour,  than  a  navigable  stream  in  many  hundred  miles. 
The  fish,  too,  make  a  more  considerable  feature  of  the  brook-side,  and 
the  trout  plumping  in  the  shadow  takes  the  ear.  A  stream  should, 
besides,  be  narrow  enough  to  cross,  or  the  burn  hard  by  abridge,  or 
we  are  at  once  shut  out  of  Eden.     The  quantity  of  water  need  be  of 

634 


ADDENDA 

no  concern,  for  the  mind  sets  the  scale,  and  can  enjoy  a  Niagara  Fall 
of  thirty  inches.     Let  us  approve  the  singer  of 

"Shallow  rivers,  by  whose  fall 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

If  the  sea  is  to  be  our  ornamental  water,  choose  an  open  seaboard 
with  a  heavy  beat  of  surf;  one  much  broken  in  outline,  with  small 
havens  and  dwarf  headlands;  if  possible  a  few  islets;  and  as  a  first 
necessity,  rocks  reaching  out  into  deep  water.  Such  a  rock  on  a  calm 
day  is  a  better  station  than  the  top  of  Tenerifife  or  Chimborazo.  In 
short,  both  for  the  desert  and  the  water,  the  conjunction  of  many  near 
and  bold  details  is  bold  scenery  for  the  imagination  and  keeps  the  mind 
alive. 

Given  these  two  prime  luxuries,  the  nature  of  the  country  where  we 
are  to  live  is,  I  had  almost  said,  indifferent;  after  that,  inside  the 
garden,  we  can  construct  a  country  of  our  own.  Several  old  trees,  a 
considerable  variety  of  level,  several  well-grown  hedges  to  divide  our 
garden  into  provinces,  a  good  extent  of  old  well-set  turf,  and  thickets 
of  shrubs  and  evergreens  to  be  cut  into  and  cleared  at  the  new  owner's 
pleasure,  are*  the  qualities  to  be  sought  for  in  your  chosen  land.  No- 
thing is  more  delightful  than  a  succession  of  small  lawns,  opening  one 
out  of  the  other  through  tall  hedges;  these  have  all  the  charm  of  the 
old  bowling-green  repeated,  do  not  require  the  labour  of  many  trim- 
mers, and  afford  a  series  of  changes.  You  must  have  much  lawn 
against  the  early  summer,  so  as  to  have  a  great  field  of  daisies,  the 
year's  morning  frost;  as  you  must  have  a  wood  of  lilacs,  to  enjoy  to 
the  full  the  period  of  their  blossoming.  Hawthorn  is  another  of  the 
Spring's  ingredients;  but  it  is  even  best  to  have  a  rough  public  lane  at 
one  side  of  your  enclosure,  which,  at  the  right  season,  shall  become 
an  avenue  of  bloom  and  odour.  The  old  flowers  are  the  best  and 
should  grow  carelessly  in  corners.  Indeed,  the  ideal  fortune  is  to  find 
an  old  garden,  once  very  richly  cared  for,  since  sunk  into  neglect,  and 
to  tend,  not  repair,  that  neglect;  it  will  thus  have  a  smack  of  nature 
and  wildness  which  skilful  dispositions  cannot  overtake.  The  gardener 
should  be  an  idler,  and  have  a  gross  partiality  to  the  kitchen  plots;  an 
eager  or  toilful  gardener  misbecomes  the  garden  landscape;  a  tasteful 
gardener  will  be  ever  meddling,  will  keep  the  borders  raw,  and  take 
the  bloom  off  nature.     Close  adjoining,  if  you  are  in  the  south,  an 

635 


ADDENDA 

•olive-yard,  if  in  the  north,  a  swarded  apple-orchard  reaching  to  the 
stream,  completes  your  miniature  domain ;  but  this  is  perhaps  best  en- 
tered through  a  door  in  the  high  fruit-wall;  so  that  you  close  the  door 
behind  you  on  your  sunny  plots,  your  hedges  and  evergreen  jungle, 
when  you  go  down  to  watch  the  apples  falling  in  the  pool.  It  is  a 
golden  maxim  to  cultivate  the  garden  for  the  nose,  and  the  eyes  will 
take  care  of  themselves.  Nor  must  the  ear  be  forgotten :  without  birds, 
a  garden  is  a  prison-yard.  There  is  a  garden  near  Marseilles  on  a  steep 
hill-side,  walking  by  which,  upon  a  sunny  morning,  your  ear  will  sud- 
denly be  ravished  with  a  burst  of  small  and  very  cheerful  singing: 
some  score  of  cages  being  set  out  there  to  sun  their  occupants.  This 
is  a  heavenly  surprise  to  any  passer-by ;  but  the  price  paid,  to  keep  so 
many  ardent  and  winged  creatures  from  their  liberty,  will  make  the 
luxury  too  dear  for  any  thoughtful  pleasure-lover.  There  is  only  one 
sort  of  bird  that  I  can  tolerate  caged,  though  even  then  I  think  it  hard, 
and  that  is  what  is  called  in  France  the  Bec-d'Argent.  I  once  had  two 
of  these  pigmies  in  captivity ;  and  in  the  quiet,  bare  house  upon  a  silent 
street  where  I  was  then  living,  their  song,  which  was  not  much  louder 
than  a  bee's,  but  airily  musical,  kept  me  in  a  perpetual  good-humour. 
I  put  the  cage  upon  my  table  when  I  worked,  carried  it  with  me  when 
1  went  for  meals,  and  kept  it  by  my  head  at  night:  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning  these  maestrini  would  pipe  up.  But  these,  even  if  you 
can  pardon  their  imprisonment,  are  for  the  house.  In  the  garden  the 
wild  birds  must  plant  a  colony,  a  chorus  of  the  lesser  warblers  that 
should  be  almost  deafening,  a  blackbird  in  the  lilacs,  a  nightingale 
down  the  lane,  so  that  you  must  stroll  to  hear  it,  and  yet  a  little  far- 
ther, tree-tops  populous  with  rooks. 

Your  house  should  not  command  much  outlook;  it  should  be  set 
deep  and  green,  though  upon  rising  ground,  or,  if  possible,  crowning 
a  knoll,  for  the  sake  of  drainage.  Yet  it  must  be  open  to  the  east,  or 
you  will  miss  the  sunrise;  sunset  occurring  so  much  later,  you  can  go 
up  a  few  steps  and  look  the  other  way.  A  house  of  more  than  two 
stories  is  a  mere  barrack;  indeed  the  ideal  is  of  one  story,  raised  upon 
cellars.  If  the  rooms  are  large,  the  house  may  be  small:  a  single 
room,  lofty,  spacious,  and  lightsome,  is  more  palatial  than  a  castleful 
of  cabinets  and  cupboards.  Yet  size  in  a  house,  and  some  extent  and 
intricacy  of  corridor,  is  certainly  delightful  to  the  flesh.  The  recep- 
tion-room should  be,  if  possible,  a  place  of  many  recesses,  which  are 

6}6 


ADDENDA 

"petty  retiring-places  for  conference";  but  it  must  have  one  long 
wall  with  a  divan :  for  a  day  spent  upon  a  divan,  among  a  world  of 
cushions^  is  as  full  of  diversion  as  to  travel.  The  eating-room,  in  the 
French  mode,  should  be  ad  hoc :  unfurnished,  but  with  a  buffet,  the 
table,  necessary  chairs,  one  or  two  of  Canaletto's  etchings,  and  a  tile 
fireplace  for  the  winter.  In  neither  of  these  public  places  should 
there  be  anything  beyond  a  shelf  or  two  of  books;  but  the  passages 
may  be  one  library  from  end  to  end,  and  the  stair,  if  there  be  one, 
lined  with  volumes  in  old  leather,  very  brightly  carpeted,  and  leading 
half-way  up,  and  by  the  way  of  landing,  to  a  windowed  recess  with 
a  fireplace;  this  window,  almost  alone  in  the  house,  should  com- 
mand a  handsome  prospect.  Husband  and  wife  must  each  possess  a 
studio;  on  the  woman's  sanctuary  I  hesitate  to  dwell,  and  turn  to  the 
man's.  The  walls  are  shelved  waist-high  for  books,  and  the  top  thus 
forms  a  continuous  table  running  round  the  wall.  Above  are  prints, 
a  large  map  of  the  neighbourhood,  a  Corot  and  a  Claude  or  two. 
The  room  is  very  spacious,  and  the  five  tables  and  two  chairs  are  but 
as  islands.  One  table  is  for  actual  work;  one  close  by  for  references 
in  use;  one,  very  large,  for  mss.  or  proofs  that  wait  their  turn;  one 
kept  clear  for  an  occasion ;  and  the  fifth  is  the  map  table,  groaning 
under  a  collection  of  large-scale  maps  and  charts.  Of  all  books  these 
are  the  least  wearisome  to  read  and  the  richest  in  matter;  the  course 
of  roads  and  rivers,  the  contour-lines  and  the  forests  in  the  maps  — 
the  reefs,  soundings,  anchors,  sailing-marks,  and  little  pilot-pictures  m 
the  charts  —  and,  in  both,  the  bead-roll  of  names,  make  them  of  all 
printed  matter  the  most  fit  to  stimulate  and  satisfy  the  fancy.  The 
chair  in  which  you  write  is  very  low  and  easy,  and  backed  into  a 
corner;  at  one  elbow  the  fire  twinkles;  close  at  the  other,  if  you  are 
a  little  inhumane,  your  cage  of  silver-bills  are  twittering  into  song. 

Joined  along  by  a  passage,  you  may  reach  the  great,  sunny,  glass- 
roofed,  and  tiled  gymnasium,  at  the  far  end  of  which,  lined  with 
bright  marble,  is  your  plunge  and  swimming  bath,  fitted  with  a  ca- 
pacious boiler. 

The  whole  loft  of  the  house  from  end  to  end  makes  one  undivided 
chamber;  here  are  set  forth  tables  on  which  to  model  imaginary  coun- 
tries in  putty  or  plaster,  with  tools  and  hardy  pigments;  a  carpenter's 
bench;  and  a  spared  corner  for  photography,  while  at  the  far  end  a 
space  is  kept  for  playing  soldiers.     Two  boxes  contain  the  two  armies 

637 


ADDENDA 

of  some  five  hundrea  norse  and  foot;  two  others  the  ammunition  of 
each  side,  and  a  fifth  the  foot-rules  and  the  three  colours  of  chalk, 
with  which  you  lay  down,  or,  after  a  day's  play,  refresh  the  outlines 
of  the  country;  red  or  white  for  the  two  kinds  of  road  (according  as 
they  are  suitable  or  not  for  the  passage  of  ordnance),  and  blue  for  the 
course  of  the  obstructing  rivers.  Here  I  foresee  that  you  may  pass 
much  happy  time;  against  a  good  adversary  a  game  may  well  con- 
tinue for  a  month;  for  with  armies  so  considerable  three  moves  will 
occupy  an  hour.  It  will  be  found  to  set  an  excellent  edge  on  this 
diversion  if  one  of  the  players  shall,  every  day  or  so,  write  a  report  of 
the  operations  in  the  character  of  army  correspondent. 

I  have  left  to  the  last  the  little  room  for  winter  evenings.  This  should 
be  furnished  in  warm  positive  colours,  and  sofas  and  floor  thick  with  rich 
furs.  The  hearth,  where  you  burn  wood  of  aromatic  quality  on  silver 
dogs,  tiled  round  with  Bible  pictures;  the  seats  deep  and  easy;  a  single 
Titian  in  a  gold  frame;  a  white  bust  or  so  upon  a  bracket;  a  rack  for 
the  journals  of  the  week;  a  table  for  the  books  of  the  year;  and  close 
in  a  corner  the  three  shelves  full  of  eternal  books  that  never  weary: 
Shakespeare,  Moliere,  Montaigne,  Lamb,  Sterne,  De  Musset's  comedies 
{the  one  volume  open  at  Carmosine  and  the  other  at  Fantasio);  the 
yirabian  Nights,  and  kindred  stories,  in  Weber's  solemn  volumes; 
Borrow's  Bible  in  Spain,  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Guy  Mannering  and 
Rob  Roy,  Monte  Cristo  and  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  immortal 
Boswellsole  among  biographers,  Chaucer,  Herrick,  and  the  5/<3!/^  Trials. 

The  bedrooms  are  large,  airy,  with  almost  no  furniture,  floors  of 
varnished  wood,  and  at  the  bed-head,  in  case  of  insomnia,  one  shelf 
of  books  of  a  particular  and  dippable  order,  such  as  Pepys,  the  Paston 
Letters,  Burt's  Letters  from  the  Highlands,  or  the  Newgate  Cat- 
^endar  .  .  . 
[1884?] 


638 


ADDENDA 


PREFACE  TO 
"THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE" 

Although  an  old,  consistent  exile,  the  editor  of  the  following  page5 
revisits  now  and  again  the  city  of  which  he  exults  to  be  a  native ;  and 
there  are  few  things  more  strange,  more  painful,  or  more  salutary, 
than  such  revisitations.  Outside,  in  foreign  spots,  he  comes  by  sur- 
prise and  awakens  more  attention  than  he  had  expected;  in  his  own 
city,  the  relation  is  reversed,  and  he  stands  amazed  to  be  so  little  rec- 
ollected. Elsewhere  he  is  refreshed  to  see  attractive  faces,  to  remark 
possible  friends;  there  he  scouts  the  long  streets,  with  a  pang  at  heart, 
for  the  faces  and  friends  that  are  no  more.  Elsewhere  he  is  delighted 
with  the  presence  of  what  is  new,  there  tormented  by  the  absence  of 
what  is  old.  Elsewhere  he  is  content  to  be  his  present  self;  there  he 
is  smitten  with  an  equal  regret  for  what  he  once  was  and  for  what  he 
once  hoped  to  be. 

He  was  feeling  all  this  dimly,  as  he  drove  from  the  station,  on  his 
last  visit;  he  was  feeling  it  still  as  he  alighted  at  the  door  of  his  friend, 
Mr.  Johnstone  Thomson,  W.  S.,  with  whom  he  was  to  stay.  A  hearty 
welcome,  a  face  not  altogether  changed,  a  few  words  that  sounded  of 
old  days,  a  laugh  provoked  and  shared,  a  glimpse  in  passing  of  the 
snowy  cloth  and  bright  decanters  and  the  Piranesis  on  the  dining- 
room  wall,  brought  him  to  his  bedroom  with  a  somewhat  lightened 
cheer,  and  when  he  and  Mr.  Thomson  sat  down  a  few  minutes  later, 
cheek  by  jowl,  and  pledged  the  past  in  a  preliminary  bumper,  he  was 
already  almost  consoled,  he  had  already  almost  forgiven  himself  his 
two  unpardonable  errors,  that  he  should  ever  have  left  his  native 
city,  or  ever  returned  to  it. 

"  I  have  something  quite  in  your  way,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.  **  I 
wished  to  do  honour  to  your  arrival;  because,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  my 
own  youth  that  comes  back  along  with  you ;  in  a  very  tattered  and 
withered  state,  to  be  sure,  but — well!  —  all  that 's  left  of  it." 

"A  great  deal  better  than  nothing,"  said  the  editor.  "  But  what 
is  this  which  is  quite  in  my  way  ?  " 

**I  was  coming  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Thomson:  "  Fate  has  put  it  in 
639 


ADDENDA 

my  power  to  honour  your  arrival  with  something  really  original  by 
way  of  dessert.     A  mystery." 

"A  mystery?"!  repeated. 

"Yes,"  said  his  friend,  *'a  mystery,  it  may  prove  to  be  nothing, 
and  it  may  prove  to  be  a  great  deal.  But  in  the  meanwhile  it  is  truly 
mysterious,  no  eye  having  looked  on  it  for  near  a  hundred  years;  it  is 
highly  genteel,  for  it  treats  of  a  titled  family ;  it  ought  to  be  melo- 
dramatic, for  (according  to  the  superscription)  it  is  concerned  with 
death." 

"  I  think  1  rarely  heard  a  more  obscure  or  a  more  promising  annun- 
ciation," the  other  remarked.     "  But  what  is  It?  " 

**  You  remember  my  predecessor's,  old  Peter  M'Brair's  business?  " 

"I  remember  him  acutely;  he  could  not  look  at  me  without  a  pang 
of  reprobation,  and  he  could  not  feel  the  pang  without  betraying  it. 
He  was  to  me  a  man  of  a  great  historical  interest,  but  the  interest 
was  not  returned." 

"Ah,  well,  we  go  beyond  him,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.  "I  dare  say 
old  Peter  knew  as  little  about  this  as  1  do.  You  see,  I  succeeded  to 
a  prodigious  accumulation  of  old  law-papers  and  old  tin  boxes,  some 
of  them  of  Peter's  hoarding,  some  of  his  father's,  John,  first  of  the 
dynasty,  a  great  man  in  his  day.  Among  other  collections,  were  all 
the  papers  of  the  Durrisdeers." 

"  The  Durrisdeers! "  cried  I.  **  My  dear  fellow,  these  may  be  of  the 
greatest  interest.  One  of  them  was  out  in  the  '45;  one  had  some 
strange  passages  with  the  devil— you  will  find  a  note  of  it  in  Law's 
Memorials,  I  think;  and  there  was  an  unexplained  tragedy,  I  know 
not  what,  much  later,  about  a  hundred  years  ago  —  " 

*'  More  than  a  hundred  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.     "  In  1783." 

"How  do  you  know  that?    I  mean  some  death." 

"  Yes,  the  lamentable  deaths  of  my  lord  Durrisdeer  and  his  brother, 
the  Master  of  Ballantrae  (attainted  in  the  troubles),"  said  Mr.  Thomson, 
with  something  the  tone  of  a  man  quoting.     "  Is  that  it?" 

"  To  say  truth,"  said  I,  "  I  have  only  seen  some  dim  reference  to 
the  things  in  memoirs;  and  heard  some  traditions  dimmer  still,  through 
my  uncle  (whom  I  think  you  knew).  My  uncle  lived  when  he  was  a 
boy  in  the  neighbourhood  of  St.  Bride's;  he  has  often  told  me  of  the 
avenue  closed  up  and  grown  over  with  grass,  the  great  gates  never 
opened,  the  last  lord  and  his  old-maid  sister  who  lived  in  the  back 

640 


ADDENDA 

parts  of  the  house,  a  quiet,  plain,  poor,  humdrum  couple  it  would 
seem— but  pathetic  too,  as  the  last  of  that  stirring  and  brave  house 
—and,  to  the  country  folk,  faintly  terrible  from  some  deformed  tradi- 
tions." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Thomson.  "  Henry  Graeme  Durie,  the  last  lord, 
died  in  1820;  his  sister,  the  Honourable  Miss  Katherine  Durie,  in  '27; 
so  much  I  know;  and  by  what  I  have  been  going  over  the  last  few 
days,  they  were  what  you  say,  decent,  quiet  people  and  not  rich.  To 
say  truth,  it  was  a  letter  of  my  lord's  that  put  me  on  the  search  for 
the  packet  we  are  going  to  open  this  evening.  Some  papers  could 
not  be  found;  and  he  wrote  to  Jack  M'Brair  suggesting  they  might 
be  among  those  sealed  up  by  a  Mr.  Mackellar.  M'Brair  answered, 
that  the  papers  in  question  were  all  in  Mackellar's  own  hand,  all  (as 
the  writer  understood)  of  a  purely  narrative  character;  and  besides, 
said  he,  '  I  am  bound  not  to  open  them  before  the  year  1889.'  You 
may  fancy  if  these  words  struck  me:  I  instituted  a  hunt  through  all 
the  M'Brair  repositories;  and  at  last  hit  upon  that  packet  which  (if 
you  have  had  enough  wine)  I  propose  to  show  you  at  once." 

In  the  smoking-room,  to  which  my  host  now  led  me,  was  a  packet, 
fastened  with  many  seals  and  enclosed  in  a  single  sheet  of  strong 
paper  thus  endorsed: 

**  Papers  relating  to  the  lives  and  lamentable  deaths  of  the  late  Lord 
Durrisdeer,  and  his  elder  brother  James,  commonly  called  Master  of 
Ballantrae,  attainted  in  the  troubles:  entrusted  into  the  hands  of  John 
M'Brair  in  the  Lawnmarket  of  Edinburgh,  W.  S. ;  this  20th  day  of 
September  Anno  Domini  1789;  by  him  to  be  kept  secret  until  the  rev- 
olution of  one  hundred  years  complete,  or  until  the  20th  day  of  Sep- 
tember 1889:  the  same  compiled  and  written  by  me, 

"  Ephraim  Mackellar, 
"  For  near  forty  jy ears  Land  Stew- 
ard on  the  estates  of  His  Lordship." 

As  Mr.  Thomson  is  a  married  man,  1  will  not  say  what  hour  had 
struck  when  we  laid  down  the  last  of  the  following  pages;  but  1  will 
give  a  few  words  of  what  ensued. 

"Here,"  said  Mr.  Thomson,  "is  a  novel  ready  to  your  hand:  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  work  up  the  scenery,  develop  the  characters,  and 
improve  the  style." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "they  are  just  the  three  things  that  f 
641 


ADDENDA 

would  rather  die  than  set  my  hand  to.  It  shall  be  published  as  it 
stands." 

"  But  it  's  so  bald/'  objected  Mr.  Thomson. 

"I  believe  there  is  nothing  so  noble  as  baldness,"  replied  I,  **  and  ! 
am  sure  there  is  nothing  so  interesting.  I  would  have  all  literature 
bald,  and  all  authors  (if  you  like)  but  one." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Thomson,  ''we  shall  see." 

1889. 


641 


INDEX 


INDEX  TO  THE  THISTLE  EDITION 


COMPILED  BY  FRANCIS  D.  TANDY 


ORDER  OF  THE   VOLUMES 

1.  THB  New  Arabian  Nights— 2.  Treasure  Island— 3.  The  Dtna- 
miter;  The  Story  of  a  Lie— 4.  Prince  Otto;  The  Island  Nights* 
Entertainments;  Father  Damien  — 5.  Kidnapped— 6.  David  Bal- 
four—7.  The  Merry  Men;  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde— 8.  The  Black 
Arrow,  and  Other  Tales  — 9.  The  Master  op  Ballantrae— 10.  The 
Wrecker  — 11.  The  Wrong  Box;  The  Ebb-Tidb  — 12.  An  Inland  Voy- 
age; Travels  with  a  Donkey;  Edinburgh  — 13.  Virginibus  Pue- 
RiSQUE ;  Memories  and  Portraits  — 14.  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books  — 15.  The  Amateur  Emigrant  ;  Across  the  Plains  ;  Silverado 
Squatters— 16.  Ballads  and  Other  Poems— 17.  Vailima  Letters — 
18.  Memoir  of  Fleeming  Jenkin  ;  Records  of  a  Family  of  Engineers 
—19.  In  the  South  Seas  ;  A  Foot-Note  to  History— 20.  Weir  of  Her- 
miston;  Plays;  Miscellanies- 21.  St.  Ives— 22.  Sketches,  Criti- 
cisms, etc. 


Across  the  Goulet,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  216- 

218. 
Across  the  Lozere,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  227- 

232. 
Across  the  Plains,  twelve  essays,  v.l5, 

p.  93-^09. 
Admiral,  The,  v.  3,  p.  272. 
Admiral  Guinea,  a  play  of  the  slave- 
trade,  V.  20,  p.  335-395. 
Admirals,  English,  Stories  of  the,  v.  13, 

p.  115. 
Adventure,  The  novel  of,  v.  18,  p.  35L 
^8  Triplex,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  95-105. 
Age,  Crabbed,  and  Youth,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  51-66. 
Age,  Illusions  of,  v.  13,  p.  53;  To  be 

feared  by  artists  and  writers,  v.  15, 

p.  286. 
Aged  people  are  the  best  teachers,  v.  13, 

p.  282. 
Agincourt,  Battle  of,  v.  14,  p.  213. 
Ainslie,  Andrew,  a  robber,  v.  20,  p.  201. 
Albany,  New  York,  Ballantrae   lands 

at,  V.  9,  p.  64 ;  Henry  Durie  at,  v.  9, 

p.  245. 
Alick,  a  Scotch  stowaway,  v.  15,  p.  53. 
Aline,  a  servant  at  the  Auberge  des 

Adrets,  v.  20,  p.  399. 


Allardyce,  Lady,  kinswoman  of  Catri- 

ona,  V.  6,  p.  67. 
Allegory,  Limitations  of,  v.  22,  p.  213. 
AUier  River,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  17L 
Alps,  Fleeming  Jenkin  visits  the,  v.  18, 

p.  147. 
Alt  Aussee,  Jenkin  visits,  v.  18,  p.  147. 
Amatbur  Emigrant,  The,  eight  es- 
says on  steerage  passengers,  v.  15,  p. 

1-92. 
Amend-all,    John,    assumed    name   of 

Ellis  Duckworth,  v.  8,  p.  8. 
America,  English  ideas  of,  v.  15,  p.  86 ; 

Nomenclature  of,  v.  15,  p.  105 ;  Sunrise 

in,  V.  15,  p.  104. 
Americans,  Mixture  of  races  in,  v.  15, 

p.   161 ;  Rudeness  and  kindness  of, 

V.  15,  p.  90,  123. 
Amersham  Place,  seat  of  Count  de  St. 

Ives,  V.  21,  p.  185. 
Anaho,  Description  of,  v.  19,  p.  19. 
Ancestors,  Speculations  about,  v.  13, 

p.  245. 
Andersen,  Hans  C,  "Vanity  of,  v.  13,  p. 

296. 
Andersen,  Job,  boatswain  of  the  ffw- 

paniola,  v.  2,  p.  75. 
Animal  life  at  Silverado,  t.  16,  p.  421. 


645 


INDEX 


Anatruther,  a  Scotch  burgh,  v.  15, 
p.  218 ;  Legends  of,  v.  15,  p.  219. 

Antwerp  to  Boom,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  3-7. 

Apemama,  v.  19,  p.  299-370. 

Apia,  a  town  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  1; 
Christmas  day  at,  v.  17,  p.  35;  De- 
scription of,  V.  19,  p.  387;  Factions 
in,  V.  19,  p.  389  ;  Festivities  at,  v.  17, 
p.  19. 

Apia  Bay,  Description  of,  v,  19,  p.  539 ; 
Storm  in,  v.  19,  p.  543. 

Apology  for  Idlers,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  67- 
79. 

Appeal  to  the  Clergy  of  Scotland,  v.  22, 
p.  227-240. 

Appin,  a  Highland  Jacobite  district, 
V.  5,  p,  142. 

Appleyard,  Nick,  an  archer,  v.  8,  p.  5. 

Arblaster,  Captain  of  the  Good  Hope^  v.  S, 
p.  163. 

Archer,  Mr.,  v.  22,  p.  319. 

Architecture,  Absurd,  in  VUla  Quarters, 
V.12,  p.  329;  Of  New  Town,  Edinburgh, 
V.  12,  p.  321 ;  Of  the  church  in  Hatiheu, 
V.  19,  p.  62. 

Arethusa,  Stevenson's  canoe,  v.  12,  p.  3. 

Argument,  The  pleasures  of,  v.  13,  p.  272, 
280. 

Argyle,  Duke  of,  judge  of  James  Stew- 
art, V.  6,  p.  180. 

Arick,  Samoan  servant  of  Stevenson, 
V.  22,  p.  507-513. 

Armies  in  the  Fire,  Proem,  v.  16,  p.  59. 

Armour,  Jean,  Meeting  of  Burns  with, 
V.  14,  p.  57. 

Aros,  an  island  of  the  Scotch  coast,  v.  7, 
p.  1. 

Art,  as  a  profession,  v.  15,  p.  279-289 ; 
Cannot  compete  with  lif  e,v.  13,  p.  347 ; 
Need  of  drudgery  in,  v.  15,  p.  173. 

Art  of  Fiction,  by  Besant  and  James, 
v.  13,  p.  344. 

Artisans,  British,  Fastidiousness  of, 
V.  15,  p.  14. 

Artists,  Life  of,  in  France,  v.  15,  p.  169- 
191 ;  In  Fontainebleau,  v.  22,  p.  152- 
166 ;  In  Paris,  v.  3,  p.  271-345 ;  v.  10, 
p.  34. 

Asceticism,  Failure  of,  v.  22,  p.  561. 

At  Compi^gne,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  104-108. 

At  Landrecies,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  42-47. 

At  Maubeuge,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  20-24. 

At  the  Seaside,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  3. 

Atlantic  cable,  Jenkin's  work  on  the, 
V.  18,  p.  130 ;  Travel,  v.  15,  p.  1-92. 

Atolls,  Dangers  of  navigation  among, 
v.  19,  p.  152,  161;  Description  of,  v. 
19,  p.  158;  Food  products  of,  v.  19, 
p.  166;  Migration  of  inhabitants  of, 
V.  19,  p.  172. 

Attwater,  William  John,  pearl-fisher 
and  evangelist,  v.  11,  p.  316. 

Atua,  Uprising  in,  v.  17,  p.  284 ;  Bom- 
bardment of,  V.  17,  p.  300. 

Auntie's  Skirts,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  16. 


Austin,  Alfred,  father-in-law  of  Fleem<. 

ing  Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  60 ;   Life  of,  in 

Edinburgh,  v.  18,  p.  139 ;  Death  of, 

V.  18,  p.  185. 
Austin,  Anne,  wife  of  Fleeming  Jenkin, 

V.  18,  p.  64. 
Austin,  Eliza,  wife  of  Alfred,  v.  18,  p. 

62  ;  Death  of,  v.  18,  p.  185. 
Austin,  George  Frederick,  a    beau,  t. 

20,  p.  291. 
Autumn   Effect,  An,  Essay,  v.  22,  p. 

109-133. 
Autumn  Fires,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  73. 
Aylmer,  John,  Reply  of,  to  John  Knox, 

V.  14,  p.  286. 

Back  to  the  World,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  134, 
185. 

Bagster's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  t.  22,  p. 
212-225. 

Bain,  Bob,  a  diver,  v.  15,  p.  227. 

Balfour,  Burley,  Anecdote  of,  v.  15,  p. 
215. 

Balfour,  David,  a  young  Scotchman,  v. 
5,  p.  1;  Flight  of,  from  the  High- 
lands, V.  5,  p.  150 ;  Recovers  his  in- 
heritance, V.  5,  p.  276;  Meets  Catri- 
ona  MacGregor,  v.  6,  p.  6 ;  Imprison- 
ment of,  on  the  Bass,  v.  6,  p.  145; 
Adventures  of,  in  Holland,  v.  6,  p.  251. 

Balfour,  Ebenezer,  uncle  of  David,  t. 

5,  p.  12 ;  Confessions  of,  v.  5,  p.  306. 
Balfour  of  Pilrig,  a  cousin  of  David,  y. 

6,  p.  29. 

Ballads,  Poems,  v.  16,  p.  270-359. 

Ballantrae,  James  Durie,  Master  of,  a 
Jacobite,  v.  9,  p.  3;  Landing  of,  in 
America,  v.  9,  p.  55 ;  Return  of,  to 
Durrisdeer,  v.  9,  p.  173;  Adventures 
of,  in  the  wilderness,  v.  9,  p.  257 ;  v. 
22,  p.  376. 

Balmile,  a  Jacobite,  v.  22,  p.  376. 

Bandbox,  The  Story  of  the,  v.  1,  p.  106- 
136. 

Barbizon,  Arrival  of  Dodd  in,  v.  10,  p. 
378 ;  Artist  life  at,  v.  15,  p.  180. 

Barron,  Edward,  father-in-law  of  Alfred 
Austin,  V.  18,  p.  61. 

Barron,  Eliza,    See  Austin,  Eliza. 

Bass,  The,  an  island  off  the  Scotch 
coast,  V.  6,  p.  145. 

Baxfield,  Lord,  Character  of,  depicted 
in  Lord  Hermiston,  v.  20,  p.  157. 

Bazin,  a  French  innkeeper,  v.  12,  p.  91. 

Beach  op  FalesA,  a  story  of  the  Taboo, 
V.  4,  p.  243-339;  Immorality  of,  ob- 
jected to,  V.  17,  p.  117;  Stevenson's 
opinion  of,  v.  17,  p.  73 ;  Title  of,  de- 
cided upon,  V.  17,  p.  79 ;  Writing  of, 
v.  17,  p.  14,  60,  80,  146.  See  also  Isl- 
and Nights'  Entertainments. 

Beach-combers,  v.  11,  p.  224-269. 

Beast  of  Gfevaudan,  v.  12,  p.  173. 

Beau  Austin,  a  drama  of  early  19th 
century,  v.  20,  p.  275-329. 


646 


INDEX 


Beaulieu,  Denis  de,  a  French  soldier, 
15th  century,  v.  1,  p.  317. 

Becker,  German  Consul  in  Samoa,  v.  19, 
p.  411,  435,  468,  490. 

Bed  in  Summer,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  1. 

Beggars,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  266-278. 

Belgium,  Canoe  travel  in,  v.  12,  p.  3-135. 

Bell,  Dr.,  Friendship  of  Jenkin  for,  v. 
18,  p.  53. 

Bell  Rock,  Building  of  a  lighthouse  on, 
V.  18,  p.  267-366. 

Bellairs,  Harry  D.,  a  San  Francisco 
lawyer,  v.  10,  p.  164;  Voyage  of,  to 
England,  v.  10,  p.  344. 

Bellamy,  Mr.,  lover  of  Dorothy  Green- 
sleeves,  V.  21,  p.  267. 

Bells,  Church,  v.  12,  p.  63 ;  Clock,  v.  12, 
p.  106  ;  Monasterv,  v.  12,  p.  202  ;  Sab- 
bath, in  Edinburgh,  v.  12,  p.  310. 

Berthelini,  Elvira,  wife  of  Leon,  v.  1, 
p.  349. 

Berthelini,  Leon,  a  French  singer,  v.  1, 
p.  347. 

Bertrand,  Macaire's  confederate,  v.  20, 
p.  402. 

Besant,  W.,  and  James,  H.,  Art  of  Fic- 
tion, V.  13,  p.  344. 

Bickford,  Capt.,  of  H.  M.  S.  Katoomba, 
v.  22,  p.  479,  485. 

Billson,  a  student  at  the  Muskegon  Com- 
mercial Academy,  v.  10,  p.  20. 

Biographical  sketches,  Difficulties  of 
writing,  v.  14,  p.  2. 

Birkenhead,  Work  of  Jenkin  at,  v.  18, 
p.  67. 

Bivouacs,  The  joys  of,  v.  13,  p.  155. 

Black  Arrow,  a  tale  of  the  War  of  the 
Roses,  v.  8,  p.  1-313. 

Black  Dog,  a  pirate,  v.  2,  p.  12. 

Black  Hills  of  Wyoming,  v.  15,  p.  128. 

Black  Jack,  a  negro  partner  of  Chase, 
V.  4,  p.  245. 

Black  Tom,  a  San  Francisco  dive- 
keeper  and  politician,  v.  10,  p.  150. 

Blackie,  Prof.,  Reminiscences  of,  v.  13, 
p.  195. 

Blast,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  171. 

Block  City,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  55. 

Bloomfleld,  Edward,  uncle  of  Gideon 
Forsyth,  v.  11,  p.  54  ;  Discovers  Gideon 
in  his  house-boat,  v.  11,  p.  161. 

Boarders,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,  pp.  206-212. 

Body-Snatchbr,  The,  a  tale  of  old-time 
medical  student  life,  v.  8,  p,  405-430. 

Bohemianism,  true  and  false,  v.  22,  p. 
585. 

Bones,  Bill,  a  pirate,  v.  2,  p.  3. 

Books,  a  cure  for  morbidness,  v.  13,  p. 
201 ;  Difference  in  the  charms  of,  v.  13, 
p.  315 ;  of  adventure,  Boys'  love  for,  v. 
13,  p.  327.    See  also  Fiction. 

Books  which  Have  Influenced  Me,  Es- 
nay,  v,  22,  p.  302-310. 

Boom,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  5. 

Bore -fly  of  California,  v.  15,  p.  425. 

647 


BOTTLE  Imp,  a  tale  of  Hawaii,  v.  4,  p, 

339-379 ;  Samoan  translation  of,  v.  17, 

p.  53. 
Bouchet  St  Nicholas,  Auberge  of,  t.  12, 

p.  160. 
Bowes,  Elizabeth,  mother  of  Marjorie, 

V.  14,  p.  306. 
Bowes,  Marjorie,  first  wife  of  Knox, 

V.  14,  p.  308. 
Boys,  Books  beloved  by,  v.  13,  p.  327. 
Brackenbury,  Rich,  an  English  army 

lieutenant,  v.  1,  p.  76. 
Brackley,   Sir   Daniel,   a    Lancastrian 

leader,  v.  8,  p.  23 ;  Accused  of  treach- 
ery, v.  8,  p.  105. 
Brand  eis,  Capt.,  German  Commissioner 

at  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  410-497. 
Breck,  Alan.     See  Stewart,  Alan  Breck. 
Breck,  John,  a  follower  of  Alan  Breck, 

v.  5,  p.  185. 
Bright,  Mynors,  editor  of  Pepys's  Diary, 

V.  14,  p.  243. 
Bright  is  the  Ring  of  Words,  Poem,  t. 

16,  p.  216. 
Brodie,  Mary,  sister  of  Brodie,  v.  20,  p. 

173. 
Brodie,  William,  Deacon  of  the  Wrights, 

V.  12,  p.  305 ;  V.  20,  p.  178. 
Brown,  Capt.,  alias  of  John  Davis,  v.  11, 

p.  229. 
Brown,  Jessie,  mother  of  Ballantrae's 

child,  V.  9,  p.  12. 
Brown  Box,  The,  v.  8,  p.  179-244. 
Buckinghamshire,    Description    of,    v. 

22,  p.  109-133. 
Buckner,  Mrs.  Anne,  wealthy  aunt  of 

Charles  Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  7. 
Bulwer-Lyttoii,  E.  R.,  Fables  in  Song, 

V.  22,  p.  193-204. 
Bunyan,  John,    Pilgrim's  Progress,  v. 

22,  p.  212-225. 
Burgundy,  John  the  Fearless,  Duke  of, 

V.  14,  p.  207. 
Burke,   Francis,   a  Jacobite  friend   of 

Ballantrae,  v.  9,  p.  29 ;  Adventures  of, 

in  India,  v.  9,  p.  167. 
Burnet,  Bishop,  on  Episcopal  methods, 

V.  14,  p.  377. 
Bums,  Robert,  Some  Aspects  of,  Essay, 

V.   14,  p,    46-86 ;  Character  and  mar- 
riage of,  V.  14,  p.  5. 
Burns,  William,  father  of  Robert,  v.  14, 

p.  48. 
Butaritari,  Description  of,  v.  19,  p.  228. 
By-day,  A,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  67-73. 
Byfield,   Prof.,  an   aeronaut,   v.   21,  p. 


Caithness,  Description  of,  v.  15,  p.  225. 
California,  Description  of,  v.  15,  p.  315- 

428 ;  Forest  fires  in,  v.  15,  p.  154 ;  v. 

20,  p.  455;  Prices  in,  v.  15,  p.  144; 

Wine  of,  v.  15,  p.  330. 
Calistoga,   California,    Description   of, 

V.  15,  p.  320. 


INDEX 


Calliope,    The,    an    English    ship    in    Challoner,  Edward,  a  man  about  town, 


Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  547. 
Calton  Hill,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  332-339. 
Calvin,    John,    Eelation    of,    to  John 

Knox,  V.  14,  p.  283-285. 
Camisards,  Story  of  the,  v.  12,  p.  229, 

235. 
Camp,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  145. 
Camp  in  the  Dark,  A,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

171-182. 
Campbell,  Colin,  Murder  of,  v.  5,  p.  146. 
Campbell,  Mary,  one  of  Bums's  loves, 

V.  14,  p.  61. 
Campbell,  Rev.  Mr.,  Minister   of  Es- 

sendean,  v,  5,  p.  1. 
Canal  Boats,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  53-58. 


V.  3,  p.  1-82. 
Champdivers,    assumed    name   of    St. 

Ives,  v.  21,  p.  1. 
Changed  Times,    Essay,  v.  12,  p.  109- 

115. 
Chapter  on  Dreams,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

250-265. 
Character,  A,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  18,  19. 
Chai-acter,  Development  of.  with  age, 
V.  13,  p.  93 ;  Is  what  makes  wealth, 
V.  15,  p.  77 ;  study  of,  Pleasures  of,  v. 
15,  p.  9 ;  The  novel  of,  v.  13,  p.  353. 
Character  of  Dogs,  The,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  293-305. 
Charity,  Hollowness  of,  v.  15,  p.  276. 
Candlish,  a  Scotch  drover,  v.  21,  p.  104  ;    Charity  Bazaar,  The,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p. 

Release  of,  from  prison,  v.  21,  p.  326. 
Canea  Bay,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p.  113. 
Cannibalism  in  the  South  Sea  Islands, 

V.  19,  p.  92,  96,  111. 
Canoe  Speaks,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  100. 
Canoe   travel  in  Belgium  and  France, 
V.  12,  p.  3-135 ;  Easy  work  of,  v.  12, 
p.  112. 
Cant,  Unbearableness  of,  v.  15,  p.  273. 
Carew,  Sir  Danvers,  Murder  of,  by  Mr. 

Hyde,  v.  7,  p.  305. 
Carlyle,  T.,  as  a  writer  of  short  studies, 

V.  14,  p.  4. 
Carmel,  California,  Indians  of,  v.  15, 

p.  166. 
Carnival,  a  boatman,  v.  12,  p.  69,  81. 
Caroline,  telegraph  ship  used  by  Jen- 
kin,  V.  18,  p.  128. 
Carrick,  Description  of,  V.  22,  p.  134-145. 
Carthew,  Norris,  a  younger  son  of  the    Chiefs^    Samoan,    appointed  '  by    the 


Charles,  adopted  son  of  Dumont,  v.  20, 

p.  399. 
Charles  of  Orleans,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  201- 

242. 
Charlie,  a  Scotch  student,  v.  7,  p.  L 
Chase,  a  South  Sea  trader,  v.  4,  p.  245. 
Chatillon-sur-Loire,  Arrest  of  Stevenson 

at,  V.  15,  p.  196. 
Cheerfulness,  The  virtue  of,  v.  16,  p.  303. 
Chevenix,   Major  Arthur,  rival  of  St. 

Ives,  V.  21,  p.  28 ;  Meeting  of,  with 

St.  Ives  at  Mr.  Robbie's,  v.  21,  p.  334. 
Chew,  an  Indian  trader,  v.  9,  p.  65. 
Cheylard,  On  the  road  to,  v.  12,  p.  172. 
Cheylard  and  Luc,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  183- 

187. 
Chia  Bay,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p.  102, 
Chicago,  Impressions  of,  v.  15,  p.  110. 


Carthew  family,  v.  10,  p.  369 ;  Rescue 

of,  from  Midway  Island,  v.  10,  p.  482. 
Carthorses,  The,  and  the  Saddlehorse, 

Fable,  v.  20,  p.  478. 
Casco,    schooner   in    which   Stevenson 

sailed  in  the  South  Seas,  v.  19,  p.  L 
Casimir,  a  business    man,  brother   of 

Mme.  Desprez,  v.  7,  p.  255. 
Cassagnacs,  a  Camisard  stronghold,  v. 

12,  p.  261. 
Cassilis,  Frank,  a  gentleman  tramp,  v.  1, 

p.  207. 
Castel-le-Gftchis,  a    French   provincial 

town,  V.  1,  p.  349. 
Caulder,  a  Cuban  slaveholder,  v.  3,  p. 

200. 
Cayeux,  Colin  de,  friend  of  Villon,  v.  14, 

p.  172. 
Cedarcrantz,  Conrad,   Chief  Justice  of 

Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  40,  75,  77  ;  Arrival  of, 

in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  560;  Duplicities 

of,  V.  19,  p.  573 ;  v.  22,  p.  46^-484. 
Celestial  Surgeon,   The,    Poem^  v.  16, 

p.  130. 
Ceremonial  life  of  our  ancestors,  v.  14, 

p.  358. 
Cevennes.  Travels  with   a  Donkey  In 

the,  v.  12,  p.  143-277. 


French,  v.  19,  p.  48 ;  Election  of,  v. 
19,  p.  377  ;  Powers  of,  v.  19,  p.  379. 

Children,  Lies  of,  v.  13,  p.  147;  Literary 
tastes  of,  V.  22,  p.  436-445;  Move- 
ments of,  V.  22,  p.  92-98 ;  On  ship- 
board, V.  15,  p.  13  ;  Sympathy  of,  v.  4, 
p.  139. 

Child's  Garden  op  Vbrses,  Poems,  v. 
16,  p.  1-87. 

Child's  Play,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  136-149. 

Chinese,  American  prejudice  against, 
V.  15,  p.  139 ;  Servants  in  California, 
V.  15,  p.  398. 

Christian  education.  Lack  of,  v.  22,  p. 
532-551. 

Christmas  at  Sea,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  357. 

Christmas  day  at  Apia,  v.  17,  p.  35. 

Christmas  Sermon,  Essay,  v,  15,  p.  299- 
309. 

Church  Interiors,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  116. 

Cigar  Divan,  Prologue  of  the,  v.  3,  p.  1- 
10. 

Cigarette,  The,  a  canoe,  v.  12,  p.  3. 

Cities,  Lighting  of,  v.  13,  p.  165-169. 

Citizen,  The,  and  the  Traveller,  Fable, 
V.  20,  p.  475, 

Clarinda  and  Sylvander  correspondence, 
V.  14,  p.  68. 

648 


INDEX 


Clarke,  W.  E.,  a  missionary  at  Samoa, 

V.  17,  p.  2, 19,  24,  167. 
Clause!,  a  friend  of  Goguelat,  v.  21,  p. 

63. 
Claygate,  Life  of  Jenkin  at,  v.  18,  p.  76. 
Clergy  of  Scotland,  An  Appeal  to  the, 

V.  22,  p.  227-240. 
Clerk,  John,  friend  of  Robert  Steven- 
son, V.  18,  p.  269. 
Clerks  (Monks),  Legal  privileges  o^  v. 

14,  p.  179. 
Climate,  Influence  of,  on  Scotch  litera- 
ture, V.  12,  p.  340. 
Coast  of  Fife,  The,  Ussay,  v.  15,  p.  209- 

222. 
Cockermouth  and  Keswick,  Essay,  v. 

22,  p.  71-82. 
CofBn,  Tari,  native  of  Oahu,  v.  19,  p.  23. 
Colenso,  Capt.,  a  mail-packet  captain, 

V.  21,  p.  430. 
College  Magazine,  A,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

211-222. 
College  Memories,  Some,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  191-198. 
College  papers,  v.  22,  p.  22-56. 
Colvin,  Sidney,  Intro,  to  Vailima  Let- 
ters,  v.  17,  p.  vii ;   Epilogue,  v.  17, 

p.  311-315 ;    Epilogue   to  Weir  op 

Hbrmiston,  v.  20,  p.  163;  Portrait 

of,  Stevenson  receives,  v.  17,  p.  66. 
Company  at  Table,  The,  Essay,  v.  12, 

p.  74-80. 
Compifegne,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  104. 
Conductor  of  the  Koads  and  Bridges, 

V.  22,  p.  187-190. 
Consuls,  Rule  of,  in  Samoa,  v.  22,  p. 

486-500. 
Controversy  about  Female  Rule,  The, 

Essay,  v.  14,  p.  272-298. 
Conventionality,  Cowardice  of,  v.  13,  p. 

163 ;  Lack  of,  among  artists,  v.  16,  p. 

182. 
Conversation,  Best  topics  ot  v.  13,  p. 

270;  Charm    of   good,  v.   15,  p.  53; 

Powers  of,  among  workingmen,  v.  15, 

p.  79 ;  True  charm  of,  v.  13,  p.  267. 
Cora,  maid  of  Theresa  Valdevia,  v.  3, 

p.  199. 
Cornishmen,  Peculiarities  of,  v.  15,  p. 

137. 
Corpse,  Mr.,  nickname  of  Tebureimoa, 

V.  19,  p.  234. 
Couch,  T.  Quiller,  Conclusion  of  ST. 

Ives,  v.  21,  p.  371-485. 
Counterblast,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  173. 
Counterblast   Ironical,  The,  Poem,  v. 

16,  p.  176. 
Country  of  the  Camisards,  The,  Essay, 

V.  12,  p.  227-277. 
Country  of  the  Camisards,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  146. 
Courage,  v.  13,  p.  121. 
Covenant,  The,  Capt.  Hoseason's  brig,  v. 

5,  p.  46. 
Covenanters,  v.  22,  p.  395-428 ;  v.  14,  p. 


377-400;   Stevensons  among  the,   t, 

18,  p.  198-200. 
Cow,  The,  Poem,  v.  18,  p.  24. 
Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  Essay,  v.^lS, 

p.  61-66. 
Crabtree,  Sir  John,  an  English  tourist 

in  Griinewald,  v.   4,  p.  71;    Drives 

Seraphina  towards  Felsenburg,  v.  4, 

p.  203. 
Crail,  Capt.,  a  Scotch  smuggler,  y.  9, 

p.  88. 
Cream-tarts,  The  man  with,  v.  1,  p.  5. 
Creil,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  118. 
Crete,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p.  113. 
Criticisms,  three  essays,  v.  22,  p.  192-226. 
Cross  of  St.  Bride,  a  place  of  rendezvous 

near  Shoreby,  v.  8,  p.  156,  261. 
Culture,  Joys  of,  v.  13,  p.  88 ;  Nature  of, 

V.  16,  p.  75. 
Currency  Lass,  a  schooner  owned   by 

Carthew,  Hadden  &  Wicks,  v.  10,  p. 

417. 

Dale,  Andie,  a  Lowland  fisherman,  v. 

6,  p.  143. 
Dall,   George,  a  lighthouse  workman, 

impressed,  v.  18,  p.  353. 
Dalmahoy,  a  cheerful  extravagant,  v. 

21,  p.  294 ;   Adventures  of,  in  a  bal- 
loon, V.  21,  p.  407. 

Dalzell,    battle    with     the    Pentland 

rebels,  v.  14,  p.  39L 
Damien,  Father,   Essay,  v.  4,  p.  413- 

432. 
Dance,  Mr.,  a  revenue  ofBcer,  v.  2,  p.  39. 
Dances  of  natives  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  19. 
Damaway,   Gordon,    a    crazy    Scotch 

wrecker,  v.  7,  p.  13. 
Damaway,  Mary,  daughter  of  Gordon, 

V.  7,  p.  10. 
Darwin,  Charles,  corrected  by  Jenkin, 

V.  18,  p.  76. 
David  (the  Psalmist),  Jenkin's  ideas  o^ 

V.  18,  p.  167. 
David  Balfour,  a  sequel  to  Kidnapped, 

V.  6;   Stevenson's  opinion  of,  v.  17, 

p.  193  ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p.  121, 124- 

127,  165,  219,  237,  264. 
Davis,  John,  a  sea-captain  in  disgrace, 

V.  11,  p.  229. 
Dawson,   majordomo     at     Amersham 

Place,  V.  21,  p.  185. 
Day  after  To-morrow,  The,  Essay,  r. 

22,  p.  288-301. 

Deacon  Brodie  ;  or.  The  Double  Life, 
Play,  V.  20,  p.  173-269. 

Dean,  a  rural  village  in  Edinburgh,  v. 
12,  p.  325. 

Death,  Horrors  of,  v.  13,  p.  95  ;  Human 
carelessness  of,  v.  13,  p.  96 ;  in  har- 
ness. Glories  of,  v.  13,  p.  105 ;  Sick- 
ness prepares  us  for,  v.  13,  p.  89. 

De  Banville,  Poems  of,  v.  14,  p.  240. 

Debating  Societies,  Essay,  r.  22,  p. 
39-45. 


649 


INDEX 


Deborah,  an  instance  of  woman's  rule,    Doric  order,  Geometrical  proportions 

V.  U,  p.  283,  292,  295.  of,  v.  18,  p.  54. 

Decalogue,  The,  as  a  basis  of  ethics,  v.    Double  life.  Deacon  Brodib,  Play,  v. 

22,  p.  538-651.  20,  p.  173-269. 

Decimal  coinage,  Drawbacks  to,  v.  15,    Down  the  Oise,  four  essays,  v.  12,  p. 

p.  143.  81-86,  93-95,  101-103,  116-122. 

De  Coetlogon,  English  Consul  at  Samoa,    Downward  Course,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  72- 

V.  19,  p.  487  ;  Interview  of,  with  Dr. 

Knappe,  v.  19,  p.  504,  506;  Implica- 
tion of,  in  the  Fangalii  affair,  v.  19, 

p.  525. 
Degeneration,  v.  11,  p.  223-399. 
Denman,  butler  in  the  Carthew  family, 

V.  10,  p.  370. 
Depopulation  of  the  Marquesas,  v.  19, 

p.  28,  40. 
Dejwrtation,     Stevenson      threatened 

with,  V.  17,  p.  165. 
Desborough,  Harry,  a  man  about  town, 

V.  3,  p.  5 ;  Adventures  of,  v.  3,  p.  179- 

244. 
Desert  of   Wyoming,   Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

128-134. 
Despised  Races,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  139-143. 
Desprez,  Mme.  Anastasie,  wife  of  Dr. 

Desprez,  v.  7,  p.  212. 
Desprez,  Dr.   Henri,  a  pseudo-philoso- 
pher, v.  7,  p.  199. 
Destroying  Angel,  Story  of  the,  v.  3,  p. 


Devil  and  the  Innkeeper,  The,  FaUe,  v. 

20,  p.  458. 
Devil- Work,  v.  19,  p.  350. 
Dialects  peculiar  to  sailors,  v.  15,  p.  8. 
Diary,  The,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  244-253. 
Dickens,  Charles,  Gentlemen  among  the    Dumas,  A.,  Vicomte  de  Brageloune,  v. 


79. 
Drake,  Mrs.,  landlady  of  The  Admiral 

Benbow,  v.  20,  p.  353. 
Drama,  Jenkin's  love  of,  v.  18,  p.  150 ; 

Morality  in,  v.  13,  p.  329. 
Dramatic  novels,  v.  13,  p.  354. 
Dreams,  A  Chapter  on,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

250-265. 
Dredging  for  telegraph  cables,  Method 

of,  V.  18,  p.  108. 
Dress,  of  the  Gilbertines,  v.  19,  p.  240 ; 

Woman's  regard  for,  in  men,  v.  15,  p. 

70. 
Drink,  as  a  cause  of  emigration,  v.  15,  p. 

34 ;  Evil  effects  of,  in  a  wife,  v.  15,  p. 

31. 
Drunkenness,  in  Butaritari,  v.  19,  p.  251 ; 

On  New  Year's  day,  v.  12,  p.  345. 
Du  Chayla,  FranQois,  Archpriest  of  the 

C6vennes,  v.  12,  p.  236,  239,  269. 
Ducie,  Edward,   assumed  name  of  St. 

Ives,  V.  21,  p.  290. 
Duckworth,  Ellis,  a  forest  outlaw,  v.  8, 

p.  8. 
Dudevant,  Mme.  A.  L.  A.,  Adventure 

of,  at  Laussonne,  v.  22,  p.  187. 
Dudgeon,  Thomas,  clerk  to  Homaine,  r. 

21,  p.  164. 


characters  of,  v.  14,  p.  368. 
Dickson,   Mrs.,  daughter  of  Smeaton, 

Interest  of,  in  Bell  Bock,  v.  18,  p.  355. 
Dictator,  The.    See  Vandeleur,  John. 
Distinguished  Stranger,  The,  Fable,  v. 

20,  p.  476,  477. 
Ditty,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  214. 
Diving,  Stevenson's  experience  of,  v.  15, 

p.  227. 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mb.  Hyde,  a  tale  of 

dual    personality,  v.  7,  p.    281-372 ; 

Originated  in  a  dream,  v.  15,  p.  263. 


13,  p.  315-326. 
Dumont,  landlord  of  the  Aubei^e  des 

Adrets,  v.  20,  p.  399. 
Duncan,  Matthews,  reprints    Jenkin's 

review  of  his  work,  v.  18,  p.  76. 
Duncansby,  Hector,  a  Scotch  military 

officer,  V.  6,  p.  83. 
Duncanson,  Neil,  a  retainer  of  James 

More,  V.  6,  p.  9 ;  Kidnaps  David,  y.  6, 

p.  140. 
Dunkirk,  Adventures  of  Alan  Breck  and 

David  Balfour  in,  v.  6,  p.  331. 


Dodd,  James  K.,  a  millionaire,  father  of    Dunois,  the  Bastard  of  Orleans,  v.  14, 

Loudon,  V.  10,  p.  15.  p.  209. 

Dodd,  Loudon,  an  artist  and  Jack  of    Durie,  Alexander,  son  of  Henry  Durier 


all  trades,  v.  10,  p.  5. 
Dogs,  Fleeming  Jenkin's  love  for,  v.  18, 

p.  140 ;  Intelligence  of,  v.  13,  p.  235- 

238 ;  Of  Scotch  drovers,  v.  21,  p.  114  ; 

Reigning  of  the  female  among,  v.  13, 

p.  298. 
Dogs,  The  Character  of,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  293-305. 
Donkey,  Adventure  with  a  frolicsome, 

V.  22,  p.  116. 


V.  9,  p.  156. 
Durie,  Alison  Graeme,  wife  of  Henry 

Durie,  v.  9,  p.  4 ;  Learns  of  Ballan- 

trae's  extortions,  v.  9,  p.  82. 
Durie,  Henry,  brother  of  Ballantrae,  v. 

9,  p.  3. 
Durie,  Katherine,  daughter  of  Henry, 

V.  9,  p.  28. 
Durrisdeer,  Lord,  father  of  Ballantrae, 

V.  9,  p.  2. 


Donkey,  The,  the  Pack,  and  the  Pack-  Dynamiter,  The,    a    series    of    con- 
saddle,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  143-149.  nected  stories  of  the  Fenian  plot^ 

Dordillon,  Father,  Bishop  of  Marqiiesas,  v.  3. 

V.  19,  p.  86.  Dynamiters,  Perils  of,  v.  3,  p.  116,  158. 

650 


INDEX 


Early  Impressions,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  10- 

19. 
Earraid,  Isle  of,  v.  13,  p.  250-257 ;  v.  5, 

p.  110. 
Ebb-Tidb,  The,  a  story  of  degeneration, 

V.  11,  p.  223-399  ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p. 

134,  215,  228. 
Edinburgh,  Description  of  High  Street, 

V.  12,  p.  293 ;  Medical  students'  life  in, 

V.  8,  p.  411 ;  Ten  essays,  v.  12,    p. 

281-358;  V.  13,  p.  191-198;   Students' 

life  iu,  in  1824,  v.  22,  p.  23-28. 
Education,  Deficiency  in  existing  meth- 

ods  of,  V.  22,  p.  531-551. 
Education,  F.  Jenkin's  methods  of,  v. 

18,  p.  140,  143,  160 ;  Of  Jenkin,  v.  18, 

p.  26 ;  Idleness  a  means  of,  v.  13,  p. 

69 ;  In  Nuka-Hiva,  v.  19,  p.  58. 
Education  of  an  Engineer,  Essay,  v.  15, 

p.  223-234. 
El  Dorado,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  106-109. 
Elliott,  Andrew,  a  Scotch  rustic  poet, 

V.  20,  p.  76. 
Elliott,  Cliristina,  niece  of  Kirstie,  v.  20, 

p.  88. 
Elliott,   Clement,  a   Glasgow  business 

man,  v.  20,  p.  76. 
Elliott,  Gilbert,  leader  of  "God's  rem- 
nant," V.  20,  p.  73. 
Elliott,  Kirstie,  housekeeper  at  Hermis- 

ton,  V.  20,  p.  6 ;  Love  of,  for  Archie 

Weir,  V.  20,  p.  62. 
Elliott,  Robert,  a  border  farmer,  v.  20, 

p.  72. 
Embro  Hie  Kirk,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  18L 
Emerson,  R.  W.,  Account  of  Thoreau 

by,  V.  14,  p.  116. 
Emigrant  Train,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

115-124 ;  Starting  of  an,  v.  15,  p.  103, 

118. 
Emigrants,  Characteristics  of,  v.  15,  p. 

11 ;  Failure  of,  to  obtain  work,  v.  15, 

p.  88 ;  in  New  York,  Discomforts  of, 

V.  15,  p.  99 ;  Stupid  jokes  of,  v.  15,  p. 

135. 
Emigration,  Hopelessness  of,  v.  15,  p. 

33,  137 ;  True  nature  of,  v.  15,  p.  10. 
Emotions,  Difficulty  of  expressing,  in 

words,  V.  13,  p.  40,  43,  49. 
Emperor  of  America,  v.  10,  p.  119. 
End  of  Travel,  An,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  259. 
Enfield,  Richard,  a  friend  of  Utterson's, 

V.  7,  p.  282. 
Engineer,  The  Education  of  an,  Essay, 

V.  15,  p.  223-234. 
Engineering,  profession  of.  Early  days 

in,  V.  18,  p.  211 ;  Intricacies  of,  v.  18, 

p.  261-264. 
Engineers,  a  Family  of.  Records  op, 

V.  18,  p.  195-366. 
English  Admirals,  The,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

110-125. 
English,  dialects,  Diversity  of,  v.  13,  p. 

178  ;  language,  French  ideas  of,  v.  22, 

p.  184 ;  roads,  Excellence  of,  v.  21,  p. 


156 ;  ships,  Arrival  of,  at  Samoa,  v.  I9i 

p.  473. 
Englishmen,  Ignorance  of,  v.  13,  p.  178. 
Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant  Places,    On 

the,  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  98-108. 
Enjoyment  the  test  of  extravagance,  v. 

22,  p.  581. 
Envoy,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  97. 
Epilogue  to  An  Inland  Voyage,  v.  15, 

p.  192-208. 
Episodes  in  the  Story  of  a  Mine,  Essay, 

V.  16,  p.  403-414. 
Epitaphs,  Moral  of,  to  the  living,  v.  13, 

p.  209. 
Equator  Town,  Building  of,  v.  19,  p. 

313 ;  Life  in,  v.  19,  p.  317. 
Ernestine,  Goriot's  daughter,  v.  20,  p. 

408. 
Escape  at  Bedtime,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  22. 
Et  Tu  in  Arcadia  Vixisti,  Poem,  v.  16. 

p.  119. 
Ethics,  Fleeming  Jenkin's  views  on,  v. 

18,  p.  166 ;  Rigidity  of  commonplace^ 

V.  18,  p.  71 ;  V.  22,  p.  529. 
Etiquette  in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  375. 
Evangelist,  An,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  75-79. 
Evans,  C,  proprietor  of  The  Petrified 

Forest,  v.  15,  p.  327. 
Evensong,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  265. 
Evolution  in  literature,  v.  14,  p.  17. 
Extravagance,  Crime  of,  v.  22,  p.  681. 

Faauma,  wife  of  Lafaele,  v.  17,  p.  99, 

120,  152. 
Faavao,  mother  of  Uma,  v.  4,  p.  252. 
Fable,  Nature  of  the,  v,  22,  p.  193. 
Fables  in  Song,  by  E.  R.  Bulwer-Lytton^ 

V.  22,  p.  193-204. 
Fair  Cuban,  Story  of  the,  v.  3,  p.  187- 

229. 
Fair  bairn,    Apprenticeship  of    Jenkin 

to,  V.  18,  p.  49. 
Fairservice,    Andrew,    an    old   Scotch 

gardener,  v.  13,  p.  223. 
Fairy  Bread,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  39. 
Faith,  Half-Faith,  and  No-Faith-at-AU, 

Fable,  v.  20,  p.  484^86. 
Fakarava,  Description  of,  v.  19,  p.  161,. 

165. 

FalesX,  The  Beach  of,  v.  4,  p.  243-339. 
Fame,  not  a  motive  with  heroes,  v.  13, 

p.  124;  of  engineers.  Narrow  limits 

of,  V.  18,  p.  70. 
Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and  Books, 

fourteen  essays,  v.  14. 
Family  of  Engineers,  Records  of  a, 

v.  18,  p.  195-366. 
Family  prayers  used  at  Vailima,  v.  22, 

p.  589-597. 
Fangalii,  Landing  of  Germans  at,  v.  19, 

p.  514. 
Fanshawe,  Miss,  afterwards  Mrs.  Henry 

Luxmore,  v.  3,  p.  84. 
Farewell,  Modestine,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

275-277. 


651 


INDEX 


Farewell  to  the  Farm,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  43. 

Fanning,  Fascination  of,  for  Stevenson, 
V.  17,  p.  1. 

Father  Apollinaris,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  191- 
196. 

Father  Damien,  a  letter  in  his  defence, 
V.  4,  p.  413-432. 

Father  Michael,  a  Trappist  monk,  v.  12, 
p.  197. 

Feast,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  317. 

Feast  of  Famine,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 
309-330. 

Felipe,  brother  of  Olalla,  v.  7,  p.  145, 

Fellow-Passengers,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  134- 
139. 

Felsenburg,  a  fortress  in  GrUnewald,  v.  4, 
p.  3. 

Female  rule.  Controversy  about,  v.  14,  p. 
272-298. 

Fenians,  v.  3. 

Fenn,  Burchell,  a  forwarder  of  escaped 
prisoners,  v.  21,  p.  136,  471. 

Fenwick,  John,  suitor  for  Dorothy  Mus- 
grave,  v,  20,  p.  287. 

Fere,  La,  of  Cursed  Memory,  Essay,  v. 
12,  p.  87-92. 

Fergusson,  Robert,  Edinburgh  poet, 
Burns's  model,  v.  12,  p.  323,  333. 

Ferrier,  J.  W.,  joint  author,  The  Philos- 
ophy of  Umbrellas,  v.  22,  p.  46. 

Fetters,  The  House  of  the  Eld,  Fable, 
v.  20,  p.  463-470. 

Fettes,  formerly  a  medical  student,  v. 
8,  p.  405. 

Fiction,  Advice  on  the  writing  of,  v.  13, 
p.  356 ;  Bad  endings  in,  v.  20,  p.  156 ; 
In  poetry  and  prose,  v.  13,  p.  346 ; 
Modern  English,  v.  13,  p.  345  ;  of  ad- 
venture. Boys'  love  for,  v.  13,  p.  327 ; 
Some  gentlemen  in,  v.  14,  p.  361 ; 
Three  different  classes  in,  v.  13,  p. 
350.    See  also  Books. 

Fielding,  H.,  Method  of,  v.  14,  p.  22; 
Comparison  of,  with  Richardson,  v. 
14,  p.  366  ;  with  Scott,  v.  14,  p.  18. 

Fife,  Description  of,  v.  15,  p.  210. 

Finsbury,  John,  nephew  of  Joseph  Fins- 
bury,  V.  11,  p.  5. 

Finsbury,  Joseph,  a  member  of  the  ton- 
tine, V.  11,  p.  2. 

Finsbury,  Masterman,  a  member  of  the 
tontine,  v.  11,  p.  2. 

Finsbury,  Michael,  son  of  Masterman,  v. 
11,  p.  13. 

Finsbury,  Morris,  nephew  and  heir  of 
Joseph,  V.  11,  p.  5. 

Florae,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  252-255. 

Florizel,  Prince  of  Bohemia,  v.  1,  p.  3 ; 
Adventures  of,  with  the  detective,  v. 
1,  p.  196-204;  As  keeper  of  a  cigar 
divan,  v.  3,  p.  3. 

Flowers,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  69. 

Folau,  chief  judge  of  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  24. 

Fonblanque,  Abimelech,  a  Mormon,  fa- 
ther of  Aseuath,  v.  3,  p.  22. 


Fonblanque,  Asenath,  assumed  name 
of  Clara  Luxmore,  v.  3,  p.  13,  51. 

Fonblanque,  Lucy,  wife  of  Abimelech, 
V.  3,  p.  24. 

Fontainebleau,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  169- 
191 ;  Description  of,  v.  22,  p.  146-171. 

FOOT-NOTB  TO  HISTORY,  A,  eight  years 
of  trouble  in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  375- 
391 ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p.  17,  94,  97, 
100,  110,  112,  134,  148. 

Foreign  Children,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  30. 

Foreign  Lands,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  8.     ' 

Foreigner  at  Home,  The,  Essay,  v.  13, 
p.  177-190, 

Forest  fires,  in  California,  v.  15,  p.  154  ; 
V.  20,  p.  455, 456 ;  Of  Mormal,  v.  12,  p. 
43. 

FoEEST  Notes,  six  sketches,  v.  22,  p. 
146-176. 

Forests,  Pleasures  of,  v.  15,  p.  189.  See 
also  Woods. 

Forsyth,  Gideon,  lover  of  Julia  Hazel- 
tine,  V.  11,  p.  54. 

Fort  Genova,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p. 
93. 

Fortune,  Peter,  an  artisan  on  Bell 
Rock,  V.  18,  p.  326. 

Fobs,  a  California  stage-driver,  v.  15,  p. 
321. 

Foster,  Evelina,  Dorothy  Musgrave's 
aunt,  v.  20,  p.  277. 

Four  Reformers,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  p. 
471. 

Foxham,  Lord,  a  Yorkist  noble  and 
former  guardian  of  Joanna  Sedley,  v. 
8,  p.  152. 

France,  at  the  time  of  Villon's  birth,  v. 
14,  p.  166 ;  In  the  15th  century,  v.  1, 
p.  287-313,  p.  317-544,  v.  14,  p.  166- 
242  ;  In  the  early  19th  century,  v.  20, 
p,  399-442 ;  Canoe  travel  in,  v.  12, 
p.  3-135 ;  Effect  of,  upon  art,  v.  15, 
p.  174  ;  literature  of,  Effect  of  Villon 
on,  V.  14,  p.  166 ;  Similarity  of,  to 
Scotland,  v.  22,  p.  181-183. 

Franchard,  The  Treasure  of,  a  tale  of 
the  French  provinces,  v.  7,  p.  199- 
278, 

Eraser,  Simon,  assistant  of  Preston- 
grange,  V.  6,  p.  56. 

French,  Kit,  Arethusa  Gaunt's  lover,  v. 
20,  p.  336. 

French  revolution  of  1848,  Jenkin's  ac- 
count of,  V.  18,  p.  28. 

Fritze,  Capt.,  German  officer  in  Samoa, 
V.  19,  p.  453,  533. 

From  a  Railway  Carriage,  Poem,  v.  16, 
p.  40. 

Frontier  life,  v.  15,  p.  126,  131. 

Galuchet,  Father,  a  missionary,  v.  4,  p. 

263. 
Gang  of  Thieves,  A,  Essay,  v.  14,  pb 

179-188. 
Gardener,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  74. 


6y. 


INDEX 


Gas  Lamps,  A  Plea  for,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

105-169. 
Gaskell,  Mrs.,  Friendship  of  Jenkin  for, 

V.  18,  p.  55. 
Gaunt,  Arethusa,  daughter  of  John,  v. 

20,  p.  335. 
Gaunt,  John,  ex-captain  of  a  slaver,  v. 

20,  p.  339. 

Genealogy,  Scientific  use  of,  v.  18,  p.  2. 
Genesis  of  "  The  Master  of  Ballantrae," 

Essay,  v.  22,  p.  431-435. 
Genoa,  Life  of  Fleeming  Jenkin  in,  v. 

18,  p.  40. 
GentUity,  Test  of,  v.  14,  p.  351. 
Gentleman  blacksmith,  v.  14,  p.  351. 
Gentlemen,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  346-360. 
Geraldine,  Col.,  personal  attendant  on 

Prince  Florizel,  v.  1,  p.  3;  The  brother 

of,  V.  1,  p.  41. 
German  firm  in  Apia,  The,  v.  19,  p.  893, 

403  ;  V.  22,  p.  473. 
Germany,  Tyranny  of,  in  Samoa,  v.  22, 

p.  451  et  seq. 
Gerolstein,  a  neighbouring  principality 

to  Griinewald,  v.  4,  p.  3. 
Gibson,  Prime  Minister  of  Hawaii,  v.  19, 

p.  411. 
Gilbert  Island  Papers,  Writing  of,  v. 

17,  p.  67. 
Gilberts,  The,  v.  19,  p.  221-370;  Dress 

in,  V.  19,  p.  240. 
Gilchrist,  Miss,  maiden  aunt  of  Flora, 

V.  21,  p.  8. 
Gilchrist,  Flora,  lover  of  St.  Ives,  v.  21, 

p.  6 ;  Return  of  St.  Ives  to,  v.  21,  p. 

303,  481. 
Gilchrist,  Ronald,  brother  of  Flora,  v. 

21,  p.  14;  Meeting  of,  with  St.  Ives 
at  Mr.  Robbie's,  v.  21,  p.  333. 

Gladsmuir,  Lord,  a  Jacobite,  v.  22,  p. 

376. 
Glen,  James,  Cheerfulness  of,  in  a  storm 

on  Bell  Rock,  v.  18,  p.  325. 
Glenalmond,  David,  Lord,  friend  of  Her- 

miston,  v.  20,  p.  21. 
Glossary  of  Scotch  dialect,  v.  20,  p.  163. 
Gloucester,  Duke  of.   See  Richard,  Duke 

of  Gloucester. 
Goddedaal,  Elias,  mate  of  the  Flying 

Scud,  V.  10,  p.  448.    See  also  Carthew, 

Norris. 
Goguelat,  Philippe,  a  fellow-prisoner  of 

St.  Ives,  V.  21,  p.  17. 
Golden  Gate,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  143-148. 
Golden  Valley,  v.  12,  p.  93. 
Gondremark,     Heinrich,    Baron     von, 

Prime  Minister  of  Griinewald,  v.  4,  p. 

87. 
Good  and  Bad  Children,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  29. 
Good  Boy,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  21. 
Good  Play,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  14. 
Gordon,  Col.,  an    Englishman   In  the 

service  of  Griinewald,  v.  4,  p.  165. 
Goriot,  a  friend  of  Dumont,  v.  20,  p.  408. 


Gossip,  A,  on  a  Novel  of  Dumas's,  E» 
say,  V.  13,  p.  315-326. 

Gossip  on  Romance,  A,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 
327-343. 

Gothic  Paris  in  Notre  Dame,  v.  14,  p. 
28. 

Gottesheim,  Killian,  a  farmer  in  Gerol- 
stein, V.  4,  p.  7. 

Gotthold  von  Hohenstockwitz,  Dr.,  a 
privy  councillor  of  Griinewald,  v.  4, 
p.  49. 

Goulet,  Across  the.  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  215- 
218. 

Government,  reliance  on,  Growth  of, 
V.  22,  p.  291. 

Graden  Easter,  Northmour's  residence, 
V.  1,  p.  207. 

Grant,  Barbara,  daughter  of  Preston- 
grange,  V.  6,  p.  51 ;  Parting  of,  with 
David,  V.  6,  p.  231. 

Grant,  Gen.  U.  S.,  a  typical  gentleman, 
V.  14,  p.  353. 

Gratitude,  Hollowness  of,  v.  16,  p.  273, 
276. 

Gray,  an  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Macfar- 
lane,  v.  8,  p.  417. 

Gray,  Abraham,  sailor  on  the  Hispan- 
iola,  V.  2,  p.  126. 

Gray,  Capt.  Andrew,  v.  14,  p.  379,  385. 

Great  Misseuden,  Description  of,  v.  22, 
p.  118-120. 

Great  North  Road,  The,  Fragment, 
V.  22,  p.  311-370. 

Greek  architecture.  Geometrical  pro- 
portions of,  V.  18,  p.  53 ;  costumes  de- 
signed by  Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  154. 

Green  Donkey-Driver,  The,  Essay,  v. 
12,  p.  150-159. 

Greensleeves,  Dorothy,  an  eloping 
school-girl,  v.  21,  p.  267. 

Greisengesang,  Baron  von,  Chancellor 
of  Griinewald,  v.  4,  p.  56. 

Gretz,  Description  of,  v.  15,  p.  186. 

Greville,  Sir  George,  an  English  dia- 
mond-trader, V.  3,  p.  194. 

Grey,  Sir  George,  v.  17,  p.  217. 

Greyfriars,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  312-320; 
Churchyard,  Description  of,  v.  22,  p. 
9-13. 

Grez,  Description  of,  v.  22,  p.  161-164. 

Grierson,  Dr.,  a  Mormon  Destroying  An- 
gel, v.  3,  p.  24. 

Griinewald,  Principality  of,  v.  4,  p.  1- 
238. 

Guest,  Utterson's  head  clerk,  v.  7,  p.  313. 

Gunn,  Ben,  a  pirate  marooned  on  Skele- 
ton Island,  V.  2,  p.  110. 

Hadden,  Tom,    a  "remittance    man" 

in  Sydney,  v.  10,  p.  401. 
Haddo,  Hall,  a  curate,  v.  22,  p.  404. 
Haggard,  Mr.,  Land  Commissioner  in 

Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  69,  183,  195. 
Hales,  Portrait  of  Pepys  by,  v.  14,  p.  254 
Hamilton,  Capt.,  Death  of,  v.  17,  p.  54. 


653 


INDEX 


Hermiston,  Jean,  Lady,  wife  of  Hermia* 
ton,  V.  20,  p.  2. 

Herrick,  Robert,  a  decayed  gentleman, 
V.  11,  p.  225. 

High  Woods  of  Ulufanua,  Proposed 
title  of,  V.  17,  p.  14,  60,  73. 

Highland  Jacobites,  v.  5  ;  v.  6 ;  v.  9. 

Highlanders,  Patriotism  of,  y.  13,  p. 
189. 

Hispaniola,  John  Trelawney's  ship,  r. 
2,  p.  54. 

Historical  Associations,  Poem,  y.  16,  p. 
75. 

History,  People  read,  for  education  and 
display,  v.  17,  p.  110 ;  Inadequacy  of 
text-books  of,  v.  17,  p.  92. 

Hogan,  J.  F.,  Letter  to,  v.  22,  p.  496-500. 

Hoka,  a  native  Anaho,  v.  19,  p.  16. 

Holdaway,  Jonathan,  v.  22,  p.  315. 

Holdaway,  Nance,  v.  22,  p.  315. 

Holyrood,  History  of,  v.  12,  p.  282. 

Holywood  Abbey,  near  Shoreby,  y.  8, 
p.l. 

Home,  Milne,  Proposed  plantation  of, 
on  Malta,  v.  22,  p.  611. 

Homme  qui  Rit,  L',  v.  14,  p.  35. 

Honolulu,  Stevenson's  visit  to,  y.  17,  p. 
267. 

Honour,  True  nature  of,  v.  22,  p.  569. 

Hoodoo,  Mme.  Mendizabal  celebrates 
the  rites  of,  v.  3,  p.  212. 

Hope,  Endurance  of,  v.  13,  p.  17 ;  Plea- 
sures of,  V.  13,  p.  106. 

Hoseason,  Ellas,  Captain  of  the  Cove- 
nant, V.  5,  p.  41. 

Hotels  in  America,  v.  16,  p.  113. 

House  Beautiful,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 
104. 

House  of  Tembinoka,  The,  Poem^  y. 
16,  p.  247. 

House  of  the  Eld,  a  fable  of  supersti- 
tion, V.  20,  p.  463-470. 

House  with  the  Green  Blinds,  Story  of, 
V.  1,  p.  157-195. 

Houston,  Alan,  friend  of  Nicholson,  y. 
8,  p.  321. 

Howells,  William  D.,  Novels  of,  v.  13,  p. 
357. 

Huddlestone,  Bernard,  an  absconding 
banker,  v.  1,  p.  220. 

Huddlestone,  Clara,  daughter  of  Ber- 
nard, v.  1,  p.  220. 

Hugo,  Victor,  Romances  of.  Essay,  y. 
14,  p.  17-45. 

Huish,  J.  L.,  a  Cockney  clerk,  v.  11,  p. 
229. 

Human  Life,  Reflections  on,  v.  22,  p. 
622-634. 

Human  nature,  Analysis  of,  v.  22,  p.  552. 

Humble  Remonstrance,  A,  Essay,  v. 
13,  p.  344-358. 

Hume,  David,  Grave  of,  v.  13,  p.  199. 
Hermiston,  Adam,  Lord,  Lord  Justice    Hunt,  a  Bow-Street  runner,  v.  20,  p.  186. 
Character  of,  drawn    Hunter,  John,  servant  of  Trelawney,  y. 


Hamlet,  Criticism  of,  v.  14,  p.  362. 

Hand,  Capt,  Commander  of  the  Boy- 
alisa,  V.  19,  p.  507. 

Hands,  Israel,  coxswain  of  the  His- 
paniola, V.  i^  p.  75 ;  Death  of,  y.  2,  p. 
198. 

Hansom  Cab,  Adventures  of  a,  v.  1,  p. 
76-lOL 

Hanson,  Ruf  e,  a  resident  of  Silverado, 
V.  15,  p.  371. 

Happiness,  a  moral  duty,  v.  13,  p.  76 ; 
complete.  Rareness  of,  v.  13,  p.  85; 
Different  forms  of,  v.  15,  p.  241-249  ;  in 
literature,  Need  of,  v.  1^  p.  177  ;  Sub- 
jective nature  of,  v.  13,  p.  87;  The 
aim  of  all  existence,  v.  15,  p.  39,  247 ; 
What  constitutes,  v.  13,  p.  106. 

Happy  Thought,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  25. 

Harker,  carrier  at  Padwick,  v.  11,  p.  168. 

Harris,  Capt.,  a  paid  assassin,  v.  9,  p.  240. 

Hart,  Capt.  John,  a  planter,  v.  19,  p.  111. 

Hartley,  Harry,  secretary  of  Gen.  Van- 
deleur,  v.  1,  p.  105. 

Hastie,  Alison,  an  innkeeper's  daugh- 
ter, v.  5,  p.  239. 

Hatch,  Bennet,  a  retainer  of  Brackley, 
V.  8,  p.  4. 

Havens,  Mr.,  a  trader  in  the  Marquesas, 
V.  10,  p.  5. 

Hawaii,  Missionaries  in,  y.  4,  p.  416. 

Hawaiian  Embassy  in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p. 
411. 

Hawkins,  Jim,  son  of  the  keeper  of  The 
Admiral  Benbow,  v.  2,  p.  3. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  Art  of,  y.  14,  p. 
27. 

Hayloft,  The,  Poem,  y.  16,  p.  42. 

Hay  ward,  Stephens,  author,  v.  14,  p. 
329. 

Hazeltine,  Julia,  ward  of  Joseph  Fins- 
bury,  y.  11,  p.  5. 

He  hears  with  gladdened  heart  the 
thunder.  Poem,  y.  16,  p.  225. 

Head-hunting  in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  450, 
463 ;  V.  22,  p.  480,  489. 

Heart  of  the  Country,  The,  Essay,  v. 
12,  p.  261-268. 

Heather  Ale,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  349. 

Hkathbroat,  Fragment,  v.  22,  p.  395- 
428. 

Hem  stead,  an  unemployed  Sydney 
clerk,  V.  10,  p.  395. 

Henderland,  Mr.,  a  missionary  in  the 
Highlands,  v.  5,  p.  136. 

Henderson,  Charles,  Drowning  of,  near 
Bell  Rock,  V.  18,  p.  362. 

Henley,  W.  E.,  teaches  Jenkin  literary 
composition,  v.  18,  p.  169 ;  Joint  au- 
thor. Plays,  v.  20,  p.  173-442. 

Henry,  Stevenson's  Samoan  boy,  v.  17, 
p.  3,  8,  22,  83,  179. 

Henry  James,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  124, 


Clerk,  y.  20,  p.  2  ;  i 

from  Lord  Baxfield,  v.  20,  p.  157. 


2,  p.  71. 


654 


INDEX 


Hunter,  Eobert,  Reminiscences  of,  v. 

13,  p.  285. 
Hunter's  Family,   The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

374-384. 
Hyde,  Dr.  C.  M.,  Reply  to  attack  of,  on 

Father  Damien,  v.  4,  p.  414. 
Hyde,   Edward,  assumed  name  of  Dr. 

Jekyll,  V.  7,  p.  284. 

I  Have  a  Goad,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  160-167. 
I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  down- 
ward slope.  Poem,  v.  16^  p.  224 


Island  Nights'  Entbrtainmbnts,  a 

series  of  three  tales,  v.  4,  p.  243-409 ; 

Writing  of,  v.  17,  p.  205,  208. 
Isle  of  Voices,  The,  a  story  of  magic,  v. 

4,  p.  383-409. 
Islet,  Memoirs  of  an.  Essay,  t.  13,  p. 

250-257. 
It  is  not  yours,  0  Mother,  to  complain. 

Poem,  V.  16,  p.  136. 
It  is  the  Season  now  to  Go,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  102. 
,.«x«  o^v^i^v-,  *  >^^...,  ,.  ^^J,  v.  *-«  Italian  revolution  of  1848,  v.  18,  p.  41. 

I  Kana  Kim,  a  form  of  debasement^  v.    It  's  an  owercome  sooth  for  age  an* 


19,  p.  290. 
I  know  not  how  it  is  with  you,  Poem, 

v.  16,  p.  210. 
I  will  make  you  brooches,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  211. 
Ichigi-Koda,  a  soldier  and  disciple  of 

Yoshida,  v.  14,  p.  156. 
Ide,  Mr.,  Chief  Justice  of  Samoa,  v.  22, 

p.  489. 
Ideal  House,  The.  v.  22,  p.  634-638. 
Ideals,   All  animals  live  for,  v.  15,  p. 

296  ;  Conflict  of,  in  married  life,  v.  13, 

p.  22. 
Ideas,  Growth  of,  v.  13,  p.  54. 
Idle  Hours,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  155-159. 
Idlers,  An  Apology  for.  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

67-79. 
If  This  were  Faith,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  227. 
Hie  Terrarum,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  157. 
Imt^nation,  Necessity  of,  to  an  engi- 
neer, V.  18,  p.  261-264;  Of  children, 

v.  4,  p.  140. 
In  Memoriam,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  237. 
In  Memoriam  F.  A.  S.,  Poem,  v.  1^  p. 

139. 
Intermittent  Light  for  Lighthouses,  A 

New  Foi-m  of,  v.  22,  p.  608-611. 
In  the  Highlands,  in  the  country  places. 

Poem,  V.  16,  p.  217. 
In   the   South  Seas,  an  account  of 

Stevenson's  travels,  v.  19,  p.  1-370; 

Writing  of,  v.  17,  p.  4,  17,  44,  50,  69, 

77. 
In  the  States,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  142. 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Nimente,  Essay, 

v.  12,  p.  256-260. 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Tarn,  Essay,  v.  12, 

p.  241-251. 
Indian  massacres,  v.  15,  p.  131. 
Indians,  American   prejudice  against, 

v.  15,  p.  142  ;  Of  Carmel,  v.  15,  p.  166. 
Individuality,   Ethical  value  of,  v.  22, 

p.  565. 
Infanticide  in  Polynesia,  v.  19,  p.  38. 
Influenza  in  Apia,  v.  17,  p.  90,  95,  209, 

230 ;  V.  11,  p.  229. 
Inland  Votaoe,  An,   twenty-one  es- 
says on  Belgium  and  France,  v.  12,  p. 

3-135  ;  Epilogue  to,  v.  15,  p.  192-208. 
Innes,  Frank,  Arrival  of,  at  Hermiston, 


youth,  Poem,  ▼.  16,  p.  196. 

Jackson,  Henrietta,  wife  of  Charles  Jen- 
kin,  Jr.,  v.  18,  p.  17. 

Jacobites,  v.  6 ;  v.  6 ;  v.  9 ;  v.  22,  p.  373- 
393. 

James,  H.,  and  Besant,  W.,  Art  of  Fic- 
tion, V.  13,  p.  344. 

James,  Henry,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  124. 

Japp,  Dr.,  Thoreau's  friend  and  disciple, 
V.  14,  p.  10. 

Jean-Marie,  adopted  son  of  Dr.  Desprez, 
V.  7,  p.  201. 

Jekyll,  Dr.  Henry,  an  eminent  physi- 
cian, V.  7,  p.  301. 

Jenkin,  Austin,  eldest  son  of  Fleeming, 
Goodness  of,  v.  18,  p.  143. 

Jenkin,  Bernard,  son  of  Fleeming,  y.  18, 
p.  142. 

Jenkin,  Charles,  grandfather  of  Fleem- 
ing, V.  18,  p.  5,  21. 

Jenkin,  Charles,  Jr.,  father  of  Fleeming, 
V.  18,  p.  6  ;  Life  of,  in  Edinburgh,  v.  18, 
p.  139;  Golden  wedding  of,  v.  18,  p.  183. 

Jenkin,  Mrs.  Charles,  Sickness  of,  v.  18, 
p.  178. 

Jenkin,  Charles  Frewen,  second  son  of 
Fleeming,  Birth  ot,  v.  18,  p.  81. 

Jenkin  family.  Genealogy  of,  v.  18,  p.  1. 

Jenkin,  Fleeming,  Birth  o^  t.  18,  p.  24 ; 
Marriage  of,  v.  18,  p.  69  ;  Work  of,  in 
the  Mediterranean,  v.  18,  p.  84-130; 
Life  of,  in  Edinburgh,  v.  18,  p.  36  ;  As 
a  Professor,  v.  18,  p.  160 ;  Character  of, 
V.  18,  p.  170. 

Jenkin,  Fleeming,  Memoir  op,  v.  18. 

Jenkin,  John,  Great-grandfather  of 
Fleeming;v.  18,  v.  3. 

Jenkin,  John,  uncle  of  Fleeming,  y.  18, 
p.  6 ;  Death  of,  v.  18,  p.  184. 

Jenkin,  Odden,  eldest  son  of  Fleeming, 
Birth  of,  v.  18,  p.  75. 

Jersey,  Countess  of,  visits  Mataafa,  r. 
17,  p.  177. 

Jesuit  missions  in  California,  v.  15,  p. 
167. 

Jews,  Usury  of,  in  California,  r.  16,  p. 
344. 

Jimson,  assumed  name  of  Gideon  For* 
syth,  V.  11,  p.  146. 


▼.  20,  p.  14 ;  College  friend  of  Archie    John  the  Fearless,  Duke  of  Burgundy. 
Weir,  V.  20,  p.  24.  v.  14,  p.  207. 


INDEX 

John  Paul,  a  servant  of  Lord  Durris-  Laclas,  a  fellow-prisoner  of  St.  Ives,  v. 

deer,  v.  9,  p.  9.  21,  p.  21,  62. 

Johnson,  second  mate  of  the  Gleaner,  Lafenstre,  Gaston,  a  French  artist,  v. 

v.  10,  p.  147.  12,  p.  74. 

Johnson,  Sir  William,  an  English  officer  Lamplighter,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  32. 

in  America,  v.  9,  p.  254.  Lancastrian  army.  Retreat  of,  v.  8,  p. 

Jones,  a  travelling  companion  of  Steven-  72. 

son,  v.  15,  p.  7.  Land  Commissioners  in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p. 

Jopp,  Duncan,  Trial  of,  for  murder,  v.  587. 

20,  p.  27.  Land  of  Counterpane,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 

Journalism,  Vicissitudes  of,  v.  13,  p.  218.  p.  17. 

Joyce,  Richard,  servant  of  Trelawney's,  Land  of  Nod,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  18. 

V.  2,  p.  71.  Land  of  Story-Books,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 

Jupille,  Mme. ,  keeper  of  a  caf6  in  Paris,  p.  57. 

V.  21,  p.  459.  Land  tenure  in  California,  v.  15,  p.  168, 

166. 

Kalamake,  an  Hawaiian  magician,  v.  4,  Landrecies,  At,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  48-52. 

p.  383.  Landrecies,  To,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  42-47. 

Kalawao,  Leper  settlement  at,  v.  4,  p.  Lands,  The,  in  Edinbm^h,  v.  12,  p.  289- 

419.  296. 

Eangaroo-rat   of   California,  v.  15,  p.  Language,  Difference  of,  in  England  and 

424.  America,  v.  15,  p.  114;    Limitations 

Karaiti,  a  native  of  Butaritari,  v.  19,  p.  of,  v.  13,  p.  43,  46, 164  ;  Of  Samoa,  v. 

276.  17,  p.  41. 

Katharine,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  127.  Lantern-Bearers,   Essay,  v.  15,  p.  235- 

Katooinba,  British  vessel  in  Samoa,  v.  249. 

22,  p.  479,  485.  Lanyon,  Dr.  Hastie,  a   friend   of    Dr. 

Kauanui,    deposed  brother   of    Taipi-  Jekyll,  v.  7,  p.  291 ;  Death  of,  v.  7,  p. 

Kikino,  v.  19,  p.  47.  319. 

Kava,  Drinking  of,  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  Large  Testament,  The,  Essay,  v.  14,  p- 

142,  152,  168,  181,  269,  273.  193-200. 

Kearney,  Dennis,  Career  of,  in  Califor-  Last  Day,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  269-274. 

nia,  V.  15,  p.  165.  Last  Sight,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  261. 

Keawe,  owner  of  the  Bottle  Imp,  v.  4,  Late  in  the  nicht  in  bed  I  lay.  Poem,  v. 

p.  339.  16,  p.  188. 

Keepsake  Mill,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  27,.  Laulii,  headquarters  of  Mataafa,  v.  19, 

Kelland,  Prof.,  Reminiscences  of)  v.  13,  p.  492 ;  War-ships  at,  v.  19,  p.  505. 

p.  194.  Laupepa^  King  of  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  85, 

Kelmar,  a  Calif ornian  Jew,  v.  15,  p.  343.  138,  139 ;  v.  19,  p.  405,  408,  414-428, 

Kentish,  Mr.,  an  officer  on  Sir  G.  Gre-  556,  570,  582 ;  v.  22,  p.  476. 

vine's  yacht,  v.  3,  p.  220.  Law-courts  in  Edinburgh,  v.  12,  p.  299  ; 

Keola,  an  Hawaiian  native,  v.  4,  p.  383.  Justification  of  disregarding  the,  v. 

Kettley,  a  town  in  the  Fen  district,  v.  22,  p.  542. 

8,  p.  23.  Lawless,  Will,  one  of  Duckworth's  fol- 

KiDNAPPBD,  a  tale  of  the  Highland  Jac-  lowers,  v.  8,  p.  54. 

obites,  V.  5.  Lawson,  William,  Procurator-Fiscal,  v.. 

Kimberley,  Admiral  of  American  fleet  20,  p.  178. 

in  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  541 ;  Cheerfulness  Lay  Morals,  a  treatise  on  ethics,  v. 

of,  after  the  storm,  v.  19,  p.  551.  22,  p.  529-588. 

Kirkby-Lonsdale,  Adventure  of  St.  Ives  Leary,  Commander,  American  officer  in 

with  the  landlord  at,  v.  21,  p.  280.  Samoa,  v.    19,    p.   432  ;    Protest   of, 

Klein,  John,  Samoan  correspondent  of  against  the  Germans,  v.  19,  p.  454 ;. 

the  New  York  World,  v.  19,  p.  513,  Attitude  of,  in  the  Scanlan  outrage, 

524 ;  V.  22,  p.  452.  v.  19,  p.  474  ;  Visit  of,  to  Tamasese's 

Knappe,  Dr.,  German  Consul  in  Samoa,  quarters,  v.  19,  p.  498. 

V.  19,  p.  502  ;  Proclamation  of  martial  Legends,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  304-311.    See 

law  by,  V.  19,  p.  531 ;  Reproof  of,  by  also  Superstition. 

Bismarck,  v.  19,  p.  538 ;  Tyranny  of,  Lehua,  wife  of  Keola  and  daughter  of 

V.  22,  p.  452.  Molokai,  v.  4,  p.  383 ;  Rescues  Keola 

Knox,    John,    and    his    Relations    to  from  the  Isle  of  Voices,  v.  4,  p.  408. 

Women,  Exsay,  v.  14,  p.  272-325.  Leith,  River,  View  of,  from  the  Manse, 

Kokua,  wife  of  Keawe,  v,  4,  p.  353.  v.  13,  p.  241. 

Kooamua,  Chief  of  Hatiheu,  v.  19,  p.  49.  Lepers,  v.  4,  p.  413-432. 

Kusdkab^,  a  reformer  from  Satzuma,  v.  Leslie,  Walter,  Mary  Brodie's  lover,  r. 

14,  p.  162.  20,  p.  173. 

656 


INDEX 


Let  Beauty  Awake,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  209.  Looking  Forward,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  13. 

Letter  to  a  Young  Gentleman  who  Pro-  Looking-Glass  River,  Poem,  v.   16,  p, 

poses  to  Embrace  the  Career  of  Art,  37. 

V.  15,  p.  279-289  ;  to  the  Clergy  oi  Lopaka,  friend  of  Keawe,  v.  4,  p.  345, 


Scotland,  v.  22,  p.  227-240, 

Letters  of  condolence  to  Robert  Steven- 
son's wife,  V.  18,  p.  222,  224. 

Letters  to  Young  People,  v.  22,  p.  501- 
527. 

Liberal  Genius,  A,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  253- 
263. 

Lie,  The  Story  of  a,  a  tale  of  Paris  Bo- 
hemians, V.  3,  p.  271-345. 

Lies  of  children,  v.  13,  p.  147. 


Lost  Occasion,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 
226. 

Lotoanuu,  headquarters  of  Tamasese, 
V.  19,  p.  492. 

Loudon,  Adam,  Scotch  uncle  of  Loudon 
Dodd,  V.  10,  p.  30. 

Loudon,  Alexander,  maternal  grand- 
father of  Loudon  Dodd,  v.  10,  p.  31 ; 
Makes  his  will,  v.  10,  p.  102 ;  Death 
of,  V.  10,  p. 


Life,  V.  14,  p.  99  ;  Originates  in  corrup-    Louis  de  Valois,  Duke  of  Orleans,  father 
tion,  V.  15,  p.  291 ;  The  meaning  of,  v.        of  Charles,  v.  14,  p.  202. 


13,  p.  99;  Ties  which  bind  us  to,  v. 
13,  p.  91 ;  Uncertainty  of,  v.  13,  p.  97  ; 
V.  20,  p.  452-454. 

Lighthouse-keepers,  Life  of,  v.  18,  p. 
249-255 ;  men.  Protection  of,  from  the 
press  gang,  v.  18,  p.  234,  353  ;  on  Bell 
Rock,  V.  18,  p.  267-366  ;  Operations  in 
Scotland,  v.  18,  p.  235,  241 ;  Thomas 
Stevenson's  work  for,  v.  13,  p.  258; 
Visitation  of,  v.  15,  p.  214. 

Lighthouses,  Intermittent  Lights  for, 
V.  22,  p.  608-611. 

Light-keeper,  The,  Poem,  v.  22,  p.  606. 

Lights,  Development  of,  v.  13,  p.  165- 
169. 

Lindsay,  Prof.,  Reminiscences  of,  v.  13, 
p.  193. 


Louis  XL,  changed  times  under,  v.  14, 
p.  235. 

Love,  Delights  of  mutual,  v.  13,  p.  34 ; 
Difficulty  of  handling,  in  literature, 
V.  17,  p.  149 ;  Every  one  cannot,  v. 
13,  p.  30;  Is  passionate  kindness,  v. 
13,  p.  36 ;  Jenkin's  opinion  of,  v.  18, 
p.  59 ;  Not  blind,  v.  14,  p.  139 ;  Ob- 
stacles which  cause  people  to  miss,  v. 
13,  p.  31 ;  Of  Capt.  Charles  Jenkin  for 
his  wife,  v.  18,  p.  180 ;  Rarity  of,  v.  13, 
p.  8. 

Love  Stories,  The,  Essay,  y.  14,  p.  67- 
72. 

Lovelands,  Irvine,  brother  of  Mrs.  Han- 
son, V.  15,  p.  377. 

Lovers,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  313. 


Literary  training  of  Stevenson,  v.  13,    Lowden  Sabbath  Morn,  A,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  211.  p.  163. 

Literary  work,  a  subject  for  mirth,  v.    Loz^re,  Across  the,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  227- 


15,  p.  72 ;  Happiness  of,  v.  15,  p.  244 ; 
in  Samoa,  v.  17 ;  Payment  for,  v.  15, 
p.  37,  287. 
literature,  as  a  profession,  v.  15,  p.  287- 
289 ;  Comparison  of,  with  painting,  v. 
14,  p.  19 ;  Discouragement  of  the  be- 
ginner in,  V.  2,  p.  xi.;  Impious,  v.  20, 
p.  473 ;  Incident  the  cream  of,  v.  13,  p. 
882  ;  Jenkin's  choice  in,  v.  18,  p.  168, 


232. 

Luc,  Cheylard  and,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  183- 
187. 

Luxmore,  Clara,  a  young  Fenian,  v.  3, 
p.  13;  Return  of,  to  her  mother's 
house,  V.  3,  p.  142 ;  Meeting  of,  with 
Florizel,  v.  3,  p.  262.  See  also  Fon- 
blanque,  Asenath;  and  Valdevia, 
Theresa. 


177 ;  Need  of  drudgery  in,  v.  15,  p.    Luxmore,  Henry,  v.  3,  p.  96. 


173 ;  of  woe,  v.  14,  p.  95 ;  Pastoral  ele- 
ment in,  v.  13,  p.  238 ;  Repeated  use  of 
the  same  scene  in,  v.  13,  p.  250 ;  Rigid- 
ity of,  V.  13,  p.  265. 

Little  Land,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  60. 

Livesey,  Dr.  David,  a  physician  and 
magistrate,  v.  2,  p.  8 ;  Narrative  of,  of 
events  on  Skeleton  Island,  v.  2,  p.  121.    Maben,  Thomas,  Secretary  of  State  of 

Living  Rosary,  Association  of  the,  v.  12,       Samoa,  v.  22,  p.  472. 


Luxmore,  Mrs.  Henry,  a  spirited  old 
lady,  V.  3,  p.  84;  Reconciliation  of, 
with  Clara,  v.  3,  p.  268. 

Lysaght,  S.  R.,  v.  17,  p.  286,  296. 

Lytton,  E.  R.  Bulwer,  Lord,  Fables  in 
Song,  V.  22,  p.  193-204. 


p.  120. 
Locke,  Mrs.  Anne,  friend  of  Knox,  v.  14, 

p.  314. 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  v.  1,  p.  287-313. 


Mac,  a  sailor  on  the  Currency  Lass,  v. 

10,  p.  428. 
MACAraB,  a  melodramatic  farce,  v.  20, 

p.  399-442. 


London,  Robert  Stevenson's  description    Macaire,  Robert,  a  French  robber,  v. 


of,  v.  18,  p.  223. 


20,  p.  402. 


Longhurs^  Douglas  B.,  a  San  Francisco  Macaulay,  T.  B.,  as  a  writer  of  short 
mUlionaire,  v.  10,  p.  165.  studies,  v.  14,  p.  4. 

Longnon,  M.,  biographer  of  Villon,  v.  Macbeth,  Salvini  as,  v.  22,  p.  205-211. 

14,  p.  166.  M 'Clour,   Janet,   servant  of   Soulis,  n 

657 


INDEX 


classes,  v.  15,  p.  73  ;  Of  natives  in  Sa. 
moa,  V.  17,  p.  82 ;  Of  the  Polynesiana, 
V.  19,  p.  16. 
Manono,  Sacking  of,  v.  22,  p.  484 ; 
Troubles  in,  v.  17,  p.  78;  v.  19,  p. 
297. 


witch,  V.  7,  p.  130 ;  a  girl  Covenanter, 

T.  22,  p.  407. 
Macconochie,  a  servant  of  Lord  Durris- 

deer,  v.  9,  p.  8. 
Macfailane,  Wolfe,  a  physician,  college 

chum  of  Fettes,  v.  8,  p.  408. 
M'Glashan,  Miss,   Esther's  aunt,   v.  3,    Manse,  The,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  241-249. 

p.  291.  Mapiao,  a  Tahuku,  v.  19,  p.  124. 

Macgregor,Catriona,  daughter  of  James    Marchand,  Pierre,    Prior  of  Paray-le- 

More,  V.  6,  p.  5  ;  Gratitude  of,  to  Da-        Monial,  v.  14,  p.  186. 

Aid,  y.  6,  p.  105  ;  Assists  her  father  to    Marching  Song,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  28. 

escape,  v.  6,  p.  201.  Marjory,  a  parson's  daughter,  v.  7,  p.  80. 

Macgregor,  James  More,  a  son  of  Rob    Markheim,    a   tale   of    a   murderer's 

Roy,  V.    6,    p.  4 ;   Escape  of,   from       conscience,  v.  7,  p.  104-126. 


prison,  v.  6,  p.  201. 

Macgregor,  Robin,  a  son  of  Rob  Roy,  v. 
5,  p.  228. 

Macgregors,  Kinship  of,  to  the  Steven- 
sons,  V.  18,  p.  202. 

McGuire,  Patrick,  a  Scotch  Fenian,  v. 
3,  p.  71 ;  Adventure  of,  with  an  in- 
fernal machine,  v.  3,  p.  155. 

M'Kail,  Hugh,  Death  of,  v.  14,  p.  397. 

Mackay,  a  Scotch  engineer  emigrant,  v. 
15,  p.  35. 


Marquesas,  The,  v.  19,  p.  1-147 ;  Dwell- 
ings in,  V.  19,  p.  14  ;  Life  on,  v.  10,  p.  1. 

Marriage,  Foolhardiness  of,  v.  13,  p.  19 ; 
Jenkin's  ideas  of,  v.  18,  p.  71 ;  Modern 
ideas  of,  v.  13,  p.  4  ;  Of  Charles  of  Or- 
leans to  Isabella,  v.  14,  p.  206 ;  To  Mary 
of  Cleves,  v.  14,  p.  225  ;  partners,  Prin- 
ciples  of  selecting,  v.  13,  p.  6  ;  Respon- 
sibility of,  V.  13,  p.  20. 

Martyrs,  Burial  o:^  Patrick  Walker  on, 
V.  12,  p.  318. 
Mackellar,  Ephraim,  steward  to  Henry    Masaki,  Taiso,  pupil  of  Yoshida-Tora- 


Durie,  v.  9,  p.  15. 


jiro,  V.  14,  p.  150,  159. 


M'Lehose,  Agnes,  a  friend  of  Robert    Master   of   Ballantrae,  a   tale   of 


Bums,  V.  14,  p.  67. 

Macmorland,  Tam,  a  servant  of  Lord 
Durrisdeer,  v.  9,  p.  9. 

Macpherson,  Cluny,  a  Highland  Jaco- 
bite chief,  V.  5,  p.  202. 

M'Queen,  Robert,  Conservatism  of,  v. 
13,  p.  131. 

McRankine,  Mrs.  Bethiah,  St.  Ives's 
landlady,  v.  21,  p.  292. 

Madrigal,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  206. 

Maea,  a  chief  of  Falesa,  v.  4,  p.  272. 

Maitland,  Sir  Thomas,  Commissioner  of 
the  Ionian  Islands,  v.  18,  p.  13. 

Maka,  a  missionary  and  counsellor  of 
Nanteitei,  r.  19,  p.  231 ;  Feast  at  the 
house  of,  V.  19,  p.  245 ;  Magic-lantern 
exhibition  by,  v.  19,  p.  278. 

Makenzie,  Flora,  lover  of  John  Nich- 
olson, V.  8,  p.  325. 

Maker  to  Posterity,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 
p.  155. 

Malanga,  Nature  of  a,  v.  19,  p.  382. 


Scotch  Jacobites,  v.  9 ;  Difllculty  of 
finding  a  title  for,  v.  17,  p.  133 ;  Gen- 
esis of,  V.  22,  p.  431-435 ;  Proposed 
preface  to,  v.  22,  p.  639-642. 

Mataafa,  ex-King  of  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  xiii., 
91, 137, 142, 155, 177,  252,  254  ;  v.  19,  p. 
381 ;  Absence  of,  from  the  coronation 
of  Tamasese,  v.  19,  p.  408  ;  Reception 
of  the  Hawaiian  Embassy  by,  v.  19,  p* 
415 ;  Letter  of,  to  the  consuls,  v.  19,  p. 
458 ;  Demands  withdrawal  of  the  Ger- 
mans, v.  19,  p.  468 ;  Attempt  to  sei^e, 
V.  19,  p.  481 ;  Attempt  to  disarm,  v. 
19,  p.  511 ;  Prestige  of,  v.  19,  p.  557, 
662 ;  Plot  to  arrest,  v.  19,  p.  572 ;  De- 
scriptions of,  V.  19,  p.  584  ;  Defeat  and 
punishment  of,  v.  22,  p.  477-485 ;  Wars 
of,  V.  22,  p.  491 ;  Exile  of,  v.  22,  p.  496. 

Matautu,  Occupation  of,  by  Tamasese, 
V.  19,  p.  457  ;  Battle  of,  v.  19,  p.  462. 

Matcham,  John,  assumed  name  of 
Joanna  Sedley,  v.  8,  p.  26. 


Mal^troit,  Alain,    Sire   de,    a   French  Mater  Triumphans,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  215. 

noble,  15th  century,  v.  1,  p.  324.  Materialism,  Pessimism  of  ignorant,  v. 

Mal^troit,  Blanche  de,  v.  1,  p.  328.  15,  p.  36. 

Malie,  headquarters  of  Mataafa,  v.  17,  Maubeuge,  At,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  20-24. 

p.  92,  141,  583.  Maybole,  Description  of,  v.  22,  p.  139- 

Malietoa  Laupepa.    See  Laupepa.  145. 

Malthus,  Bartholomew,  a  member  of  May-day  in  Vailima,  v.  17,  p.  268. 

the  Suicide  Club,  v.  1,  p.  23.  Medina  Sidonia,  Duke  of,  at  Anstruther, 

Mamie  McBride,  a  teacher  of  algebra,  v.  15,  p.  220. 

V.  10,  p.  124.  Mediterranean  Sea,  Laying  telegraph 

Man  and  his  Friend,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  cables  in,  v.  18,  p.  84-130. 

p.  472.  Memoir  of  Flbeming  Jenkin,  v.  18. 

Man,  Incongruous  virtues  and  vices  of,  Memoirs  of  an  Islet,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

v.  15,  p.  293 ;  Nature  of,  v.  22,  p.  552.  250-257. 

Manners,  Difference    of,  in  different  Memories    and    Portraits,    sixteen 

658 


INDEX 


autobiographical  essays,  ▼.  13,  p.  177- 

368. 
Memory,  v.  22,  p.  59-70. 
Mendizabal,  Mme.,  a  Cuban   ex-slave 

and  witch,  v.  3,  p.  189. 
Menteith,  Austin's  valet,  v.  20,  p.  291. 
Merry  George,  a  pirate,  v.  2,  p.  216. 
Mbrry  Men,  The,  a  tale  of  a  Scotch 

wrecker,  v.  7,  p.  1-68. 
Mexicans,  Americans,  and  Indians ;  Es- 
say, V.  15,  p.  158-168. 
Michael,  Father,  a  Trappist  monk,  v. 

12,  p.  197. 
Michel,  Brother,  architect,  v.  19,  p.  63. 
Mile  an'  a  Bittock,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

101. 
Mimente,  In  the  Valley  of  the.  Essay, 

v.  12,  p.  256-260. 
Mine,  Episodes  in  the  Story  of  a,  Essay, 

V.  15,  p.  403-414. 
Mirror  Speaks,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

125. 
MISADVENTURES  OP  JOHN  NICHOLSON, 

a  Scotch  tale  of  persistent  misfortune, 

V.  8,  p.  317-401. 
Miscellaneous  Papers,  Essays,  v.  14, 

p.  329-400. 
Mis6rables,  Les,  by  Hugo,  v.  14,  p.  30. 
Miserere,  Criticism  of,  v.  12,  p.  98. 
Misers,  'The  secret  joys  of,  v.  15,  p.  242. 
Missionaries  in  Hawaii,  Work  of,  v.  4, 

p.  416  ;  In  the  Marquesas,  v.  19,  p.  89 ; 

Stevenson's  influence  on,  v.  17,  p.  2. 
Mittwalden,  capital  of  Griinewald,  v. 

4,  p.  1. 
Modern  Student,  The,  Considered  Gen- 
erally, Essay,  v.  22,  p.  29-38. 
Moipu,  deposed  chief  of  Atuona,  v.  19, 

p.  143. 
Molokai,  Leper  settlement  at,  v.  4,  p. 

419. 
Monastic  life  and  diet,  v.  12,  p.  197. 
Monastier,  Stevenson's  start  from,  v. 

12,  p.   143 ;  Description  of,  v.  22,  p. 

177-190. 
Money,  bought  with  liberty,  v.   14,  p. 

123,  127;  Lack  of,  among  Mexicans, 

V.  15,  p.  163 ;  Popular  worship  of,  v. 

22,  p.  572. 
Monks,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  197-205. 
Monks,  Legal  privileges  of,  v.  14,  p.  179. 
Montcorbier,  Francois  de,  Villon's  rejil 

name,  v.  14,  p.  168. 
Monterey,  California,  v.  15,  p.  149-168. 
Montigny,  Regnier,  friend  of  Villon,  v. 

1,  p.  290;  V.  14,  p.  172,  186. 
Montroymont,   Ninian,  Laird,  a  Cove- 
nanter, V.  22,  p.  400. 
Montvert,  Pont  de,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  233- 

241. 
Moon,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  34. 
Moore,  Humphrey,  a  robber,  v.  20,  p. 

198. 
Moors,  H.  J.,  English  Consul  at  Samoa, 

v.  17,  p.  2. 


Morality,  in  literature,  v.  13,  p,  321,  329; 

V.  17,  p.  117  ;  Of  the  Profession  of  Let- 

ters.  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  274-287  ;  Positive 

nature  of,  v.  15,  p.  301. 
Morality,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  171-176. 
Morgan,  Tom,  a  pirate,  v.  2,  p.  61. 
Mormal  forest,  v.  12,  p.  43. 
Mormonism  in  the  Paumotus,  v.  19,  p. 

186. 
Mormons,    Story    of    the    Destrojdng 

Angel,  V.  3,  p.  22-62. 
Moser,  Joseph,  Jenkin's   gillie   in  Alt 

Aussee,  v.  18,  p.  148. 
Moss,  Mr.,  a   Jew,  agent   of   Michael 

Finsbury,  v.  11,  p.  184. 
Mountain,  a  subordinate  of  Harris,  v. 

9,  p.  245. 
Mountain  Town,  A,  in  France,  v.  22,  p. 

177-190. 
Mountebanks  at  Pr^cy,  v.  12,  p.  125. 
Mouton,  Michel,  an  alias  of  Villon,  v. 

14,  p.  168,  178. 

Movements  of  Young  Children,  Notes 
on  the,  V.  22,  p.  92-98. 

Moy,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  85. 

Mulinuu,  headquarters  of  Taniasese,  v. 
19,  p.  456;  Evacuation  of,  v.  19,  p. 
479  ;  Description  of,  v.  19,  p.  578. 

Murray,  Andrew,  Death  of,  v.  14,  p.  395. 

Murrayfleld,  Allan  Houston's  house 
near  Edinburgh,  v.  8,  p.  356. 

Musgrave,  Anthony,  Dorothy's  brother, 
V.  20,  p.  292. 

Musgrave,  Dorothy,  mistress  of  Austin, 
V.  20,  p.  281. 

Music,  among  steerage  passengers,  v.  15, 
p.  17  ;  In  Butaritari,  v.  19,  p.  271 ;  Jen- 
kin's  ear  for,  v.  18,  p.  73  ;  Of  the  Mex- 
icans, V.  15,  p.  160 ;  On  board  ship,  v. 

15,  p.   30;    Duel  in,    between    Alan 
Breck  and  Macgregor,  v.  5,  p.  230. 

My  Bed  is  a  Boat,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  33. 
My  body  which  my  dungeon  is,  Poem^ 

V.  16,  p.  150. 
My  Conscience,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  191. 
My  First  Book,  Essay,  v.  2,  p.  ix.-xx. 
My  house,  I  say.    But  hark  to  the  sunn^l 

doves.  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  149. 
My  Kingdom,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  51. 
My  Shadow,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  19. 
My  Ship  audi.  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  50. 
My  Treasures,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  54. 
My  Wife,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  229. 
Myner,  John,  an  English  art  student  in 

Paris,  V.  10,  p.  64. 

NabakatoMa,  brother  and  successor  to 
Nanteitei,  v.  19,  p.  230. 

Nakaeia,  King  of  Butaritari,  v.  19,  p. 
228. 

Names,  Meaning  of,  to  children,  v.  13, 
p.  311, 

Namu,  a  native  missionary,  v.  4,  p.  291. 

Nantaitei,  brother  and  successor  of  Na- 
kaeia, V.  19,  p.  230. 


659 


INDEX 

Napoleon,  v.  li,  p.  355  ;  Wars  of,  v.  21.  Notre  Dame,  by  Hugo,  Criticism  of,  ▼. 
Nares,  Arty,  mate  of  the  Gleaner,  v.  10,        14,  p.  27. 

p.  147  ;  Takes  command  of  the  Hying  Novel  of  Dumas's,  Gossip  on  a,  Essay, 

Scud,  V.  10,  p.  203.  V.  13,  p.  315-326. 

Naseby,  Dick,  an  art  student  in  Paris,  Novels.    See  Fiction. 

V.  3,  p.  271.  Noyon  Cathedral,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  96- 
Naseby,  Squire,  an  English  Tory,  Dick's       100. 

father,  v.  3,  p.  279.  Nuits  Blanches,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  5-7. 

National  characteristics,  v.  15,  p.  179.  Nukahiva,  First  sight  of,  v.  19,  p.  3. 

Nebraska,  Plains  of,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  Nurses,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  U-19. 

124-128. 

Nest-Eggs,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  67.  Gates,    Sir    Oliver,    Sir    D.    Brackley's 
New  Arabian  Nights,  a  series  of  con-       chaplain,  v.  8,  p.  11. 

nected  short  stories,  v.  1.  Occupations,  Necessity  of  congenial,  v. 
New  Arabian  Nights,  second  series,       14,  p.  129. 

V.  3.  Ocean,  Life  in  the,  v,  22,  p.  521 ;  View 
New  Island,  Attwater's  pearl-fishery,  v.       of  the,  from  Earraid,  v.  13,  p.  253.  See 

11,  p.  312.  also  Sea. 

New  Jersey,  Emigrants  in,  v.  15,  p.  102.  Oise,  Down  the,  four  essays,  v.  12,  p.  81- 
New  Town  —  Town  and  Country,  Essay,       86,  93-95,  101-103,  116-122. 

v.  12,  p.  321-328.  Oise,  The,  in  Flood,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 
New  Year's  day  in  Edinburgh,  v.  12,  p.       59-66. 

344.  Olalla,  a  story  of  the  Spanish  moun- 
New  York,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  82-92.  tains,  v.  7,  p.  142-198 ;  Originated  in  a 

New  York,  Emigrants  in,  v.  15,  p.  99 ;       dream,  v.  15,  p.  264. 

Meeting  of  Henry  Durie  and  Ballan-  Old  Greyfriars' churchyard,  v.  22,  p.  9-13. 

trae  in,  v.  9,  p.  223.  Old  Mortality,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  199-210. 

Nicholas,  Dom,  a  Picardy  monk,  v.  1,  p.  Old  Pacific  Capital,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  149- 

289 ;  V.  14,  p.  180.  168. 

Nicholson,  Mr.,  a  religious  Scotch  law-  Old  Scotch  Gardener,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

yer,  father  of  John,  v.  8,  p.  317.  223-230. 

Nicholson,  Alick,  brother  of  John,  v.  8,  Old  Town— the  Lands,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 


p.  389. 

Nicholson,  John,  son  of  a  Scotch  lawyer.  On  a  New  Form  of  Intermittent  Light 

V.  8,  p.  317.  for  Lighthouses,  v.  22,  p.  608-611. 

Nicknames  in  Polynesia,  Force  of,  v.  19,  On  Falling  in  Love,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  28- 

p.  48.  39. 

Night,  A,  among  the  Pines,  Essay,  v.  On  the  Enjoyment  of  Unpleasant  Places, 

12,  p.  219-224.  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  98-108. 

Night  and  Day,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  60.  On  the  Sambre  Canalised,  two  essays,  v. 

Nirvana,  Beauty  of,  v.  12,  p.  114.  12,  p.  25-30,  p.  42-47. 

Noel,  Dr.,  a  refugee  in  Paris,  v.  1,  p.  43.  On  the  Thermal  Influence  of  Forests,  v. 

Nomenclature,  of  Stevenson,  v.  18,  p.  22,  p.  611-621. 

195-204 ;  Of  the  United  States,  v.  15,  On  the  Willebroek  Canal,  Essay,  v.  12, 

p.  105 ;  Scottish,  Confusion  of,  v.  18,  p.  8-13. 

p.  201 ;  The  Philosophy  of,  v.  22,  p.  Opium-eating  in  Marquesas,  v.  19,  p.  73. 

52-56.  Ordered  South,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  80-94. 

Northern  Lights,  Board  of,  v.  18  ;  Early  Originality  in  literature,  v.  13,  p.  214. 

difficulties  of,  v.  18,  p.  233 ;  Servants  Origny  Sainte-Benolte,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

of,  protected  from  the  press-gang,  v.  67-80. 

18,  p.  234,  353  ;  Thomas  Smith's  ser-  Orkney  Islands,  Barbarity  of  natives  of, 

vices  to,  V.  18,  p.  232.  v.  18,  p.  244. 

Northmour,  R.,  friend  of  Cassilis,  v.  1,  Orme's  History  of  Hindostan,  Steven- 

p.  207.  son's  appreciation  of,  v.  17,  p.  299. 

North- West  Passage,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  Oro,  Brotherhood  of,  v.  19,  p.  39. 

44.  O'Rooke,  Major,  a  retired  English  sol- 
Norton,  imaginary  Emperor  of  America,  dier,  v.  1,  p.  88. 

V.  10,  p.  119.  Osbourne,  Lloyd,  stepson  of  Stevenson, 

Not  yet,  my  soul,  these  friendly  fields  v.  17  ;  Calls  on  Mataafa,  v.  17,  p.  72 ; 

desert,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  134.  Leaves  for  San  Francisco,  v.  17,  p.  114 ; 

Note  on  Realism,  A,  v.  22,  p.  266-273.  Joint  author,  v.  10  ;  v.  11. 

Notes  and  Essays,  Chiefly  of  the  Otto  Johann  Friedrich,  Prince  of  Griine- 

ROAD,  V.  22,  p.  57  et  seq.  wald,  v.  4,  p.  6. 

Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young  Chil-  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows,  Essay,  y.  12, 

dren,  v.  22,  p.  92-98.  p.  191-212. 

66o 


INDEX 


Our  Lady  of  the  Snows,  Poem,ly.  16, 
p.  131. 

Paaaeua,  Chief  of  Atuona,  v.  19,  p.  139. 

Pacific  Camp  Grounds,  v.  15,  p.  152. 

Pacific  Ocean,  Beauties  of  the,  v.  15,  p. 
150  ;  Effect  of,  on  the  climate  of  Cal- 
ifornia, V.  15,  p.  157. 

Pacific  Railroad,  a  typical  achievement, 
V,  15,  p.  130. 

Painters,  Village  Communities  of,  v.  15, 
p.  169-191. 

Pan's  Pipes,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  160-164. 

Paradou,  Marie-Madeleine,  a  wine- 
seller's  wife,  V.  22,  p.  375. 

Paris,  Adventures  of  Fleeniing  Jenkin 
ill,  V.  18,  p.  27  ;  Art  students'  life  in, 
V.  10,  p.  34  ;  V.  3,  p.  271-345 ;  Return 
of  St.  Ives  to,  V.  21,  p.  455 ;  Thieves 
of,  V.  1,  p.  287-313  ;  The  workingmen's 
home,  V.  12,  p.  78,  91. 

Parliament  Close,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 


Parliaments  of  Churches,  v.  12,  p.  284, 

308. 
Passion  and  incident,  Relation  of,  in 

literature,  v.  13,  p.  335. 
Pastoral,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  231-240. 
Paul,  German  cook,  v.  17,  p.  8,  61,  63. 
Paumotuans,  Characteristics  of  the,  v. 

19,  p.  182. 
Paumotus,  The,  v.  19,  p.  151-217. 
Pavilion  on  the  links,  v.  1,  p.  207-283. 
Peasants,    French,    Cliaracteristics  of, 

v.   22,   p.   146-151,    177-190;    in   the 

C^vennes,  Incivility  of,  v.  12,  p.  173. 
Peebles,  Charles,  son  of  George,  v.  18, 

p.  258. 
Peebles,    George,    foreman   builder  of 

the  Northern  Lights,  v.  18,  p.  257. 
Pen,  William,   author   and   friend   of 

Pepys,  V.  14,  p.  265. 
Pendragon,  Charles,  brother  of  Lady 

Vandeleur,  v.  1,  p.  108. 
Penitent,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  459. 
"Penny    Plain     and     Twopence    Col- 
oured," Essay,  v.  13,  p.  306-314. 
Pentland  Hills,  To  the.  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

348-358. 
Pentland  rebels,  Treatment  of  the,  v. 

14,  p.  396. 
Pentland  Rising,  The,  Essay,  v.  14,  p. 

377-400. 
Pepys,  Samuel,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  243-271. 
Personal  Experience  and  Review,  Es- 
say, V.  15,  p.  69-81. 
Persons  of  the  Tale,  Fable,  v.   20,  p. 

447-451. 
Petit-Jehan,  fellow-thief  with  Villon,  v. 

14,  p.  180. 
Petrified  Forest,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

325-329. 
Pew,  David,  a  blind  beggar,  v.  20,  p. 

343. 
Pew,  a  blind  pirate,  v.  2,  p.  23. 


Phillips,  Alfred  R.,  BLACK  Arrow,  writ. 

ten  in  rivalry  with,  Dedication,  v.  8. 
Philosophy,    The,    of    Nomenclature, 

Essay,  v.  22,  p.  52-56. 
Philosophy,  The,  of  Umbrellas,  Essay, 

V.  22,  p.  46-51. 
Phonograph,  Jenkin's  interest  in,  v.  18, 

p.  157. 
Physician  and  the  Saratoga  Trunk,  The 

Story  of  the,  v.  1,  p.  42-75. 
Picture-Books  in  Winter,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  53. 
Picturesque  Notes  on  Edinburgh, 

ten  essays,  v.  12,  p.  281-358. 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  Bagster's  edition  of, 

V.  22,  p.  212-225. 
Pinkerton,  Jim,  an  American  business 

man,  v.  10,  p.  43 ;  Reunion  of,  with 

Dodd,  V.  10,  p.  319. 
Pirate  Story,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  7. 
Pitman,  William,  owner  of  the  Hercules 

statue,  V.  11,  p.  83. 
Place  of  the  Name,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

343. 
Places,  Suggestions  received  from,  v.  13, 

p.  329. 
Plains  of  Nebraska,   Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

124-128. 
Plea  for  Gas  Lamps,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

165-169. 
Pleasure  Party,  A,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  159- 

166. 
Pofe,  Samoan  chief,  a  political  prisoner, 

V.  17,  p.  302. 
Poetry,  Function  of,  v.  14,  p.  90;  Of 

machinery,  v.  18,  p.    61.     See   also 

Rhyming. 
Political  crimes,  v.  3,  Dedication  ;  Pris- 
oners in  Apia,  v.  19,  p.  575 ;  Deporta- 
tion of,  V.  19,  p.  577  ;  In  Samoa,  v.  17, 

p.  302. 
Politics,  and  the  Reformation,  v.  14,  p. 

273 ;  In  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  71,  74,  76,  81, 

83,  137,  208,  211,    224,   226,  279,   283; 

Stevenson's  participation  in,  v.  17,  p. 

xiv.,  71. 
Polynesian  languages,  v.  19,  p.  9, 12. 
Pont  de  Montvert,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  233- 

241. 
Pont-sur-Sambre,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  31-41. 
Poole,  Dr.  Jekyll's  butler,  v.  7,  p.  298. 
Poor,  H.  F.,  Hawaiian  secretary,  v.  19, 

p.  415. 
Poor  Thing,  The,  a  fable  of  prenatal 

incarnation,  v.  20,  p.  496-502. 
"  Poor  Whites,"  Description  of,  v.  15,  p. 

374. 
Popo,  the  talking  man,  v.  17,  p.  159. 
Popular  Authors,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  329- 

345. 
Population,  Restriction  of,  in  Polynesia, 

V.  19,  p.  38. 
Portrait,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  143. 
Portraits,  Biographical  value  of,  v.  13,  p 

127. 


66 1 


INDEX 


Prairie  scenery,  v.  15,  p.  108, 124. 
Prayers  written  for  family  use  at  Vai- 

lima,  V.  22,  p.  589-597. 
Pr6cy  and  the  Marionettes,  Essay,  y. 

12,  p.  123-133. 

President  of  the  Council  (Samoa),  Resig- 
nation of,  V.  17,  p.  84. 

Press-gang,  Lighthouse  men  impressed 
by,  V.  18,  p.  353 ;  Protected  from,  v. 
18,  p.  234. 

Prestongrange,  Lord  Advocate  of  Scot- 
land, V.  6,  p.  34. 

Priest's  Vigil,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  309. 

PRINCE  OTTO,  a  story  of  court  intrigue 
in  GrUnewald,  v.  4,  p.  1-238. 

Prison,  at  Tai-o-hae,  v.  19,  p.  69 ;  in  Sa- 
moa, Stevenson's  visit  to  a,  v.  17,  p. 
269  ;  Feast  in  a,  v.  17,  p.  273. 

Prisoners  in  Samoa,  Treatment  of,  v.  19, 
p.  402  ;  Plot  to  dynamite,  v.  22,  p. 
454  ;  Political,  in  Apia,  v.  19,  p.  576 ; 
In  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  302. 

Private  Life,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  298-325. 

Proof-reading,  v.  17,  p.  116. 

Protestant  rebellion  in  the  C^vennes, 
V.  12,  p.  229,  235. 

Proverbs,  popular,  Cowardice  of,  v.  13, 
p.  51. 

Providence  and  the  Guitar,  a  tale,  v.  1, 
p.  347-386. 

Prudence,  Folly  of,  v.  13,  p.  58;  Nar- 
rowing effects  of,  V.  13,  p.  103. 

Prudence,  a  servant,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Hartwell,  v.  1,  p.  120. 

Public  opinion,  Lack  of  courage  in,  v. 

13,  p.  10. 

Publishers,  Stevenson's  difficulty  in  se- 
lecting, V.  17,  p.  96. 

Pulvis  et  Umbra,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  290- 
298. 

Purgle,  Jenkin's  steam-launch,  v.  1^  p. 
145. 

Quackery,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  460-462. 
Quartes,  To,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  2&-30. 
Quatre  Vingt  Treize,  v.  14,  p.  38. 

Raeburn,  Some  Portraits  by.  Essay,  v, 

13,  p.  126-135. 
Raeburn,  Mr.,  owner  of  the  rose-garden, 

V.  1,  p.  124. 
Rah^ro,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  294. 
Raid,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  325. 
Railway  conductors,  Officiousness  of,  v. 

15,  p.  112, 122 ;  Cars  in  America,  v.  16, 

p.  116. 
Rain,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  6. 
Rain  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  32. 
Rajah's  Diamond,  The,  a  tale,  v.  1,  p. 

105-204. 
Ramornie,  assumed  name  of  St.  Ives, 

V.  21,  p.  246. 
Randall,  William  T.,  an  old  sea-captain. 

Chase's  partner,  v.  4,  p.  245. 
Random   Memories,   Essay,   v.  15,  p. 


209-234;  Rosa  quo  Locorum,  y.  22, 

p.  436-445. 
Rankeillor,  Mr.,  Scotch  lawyer,  attor 

ney  of  David,  v.  5,  p.  260. 
Ransome,  cabin  boy  of  the  Covenant,  y. 

5,  p.  34. 
Rattlesnakes  at  Silverado,  v.  15,  p.  422. 
Reader,  The,  a  fable  of  impious  litera- 
ture, V.  20,  p.  473,  474. 
Realism,  A  Note  on,  v.  22,  p.  266-273. 
Rebellion,  Scotch,  v.  14,  p.  377-400  {see 

also  Jacobites);  Threatened  in  Samoa, 

V.  19,  p.  449. 
Rebels,  Treatment  of,  in  Samoa,  v.  22, 

p.  488. 
Records  op  a  Family  op  Engineers, 

V.  18,  p.  195-366 ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p. 

70,  240,  241. 
Red  Fox,  Murder  of,  v.  6,  p.  146. 
Redruth,  Tom,  Trelawney's  gamekeeper, 

V.  2,  p.  54. 
Reflections  and   Remarks   on   Human 

Life,  V.  22,  p.  622-634. 
Reformation,  John  Knox's  work  for  the, 

V.  14,  p.  272-325. 
Reformers,  The  Four,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  471. 
Regler,  Mr.,  resident  trader,  v.  19,  p.  6. 
Religion  of  the  Paumotuans,  v.  19,  p.  186. 
Religious  toleration,  v.  22,  p.  227-240. 
Reuan,  E.,  Stevenson's  opinion  of,  v.  17, 

p.  231. 
Rennie,  John,  Connection  of,  to  Bell 

Rock  Light,  v.  18,  p.  270. 
Requiem,  Poem^.  16,  p.  129. 
Respectability,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  263-271. 
Respectability,  Tyranny  of,  v.  22,  p.  563. 
Retrospect,  A,  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  59-70. 
Riach,  Mr.,  second  mate  of  the  Covenant, 

V.  5,  p.  49. 
Richard  III.,  v.  8,  p.  252. 
Ridi,  the  dress  of  Gilbertine  women,  y. 

19,  p.  240  ;  Sacredness  of,  v.  19,  p.  289. 
Ridley,  Barbara,    Dorothy   Musgrave's 

maid,  v.  20,  p.  277. 
Righteousness,  Definition  of,  v.  22,  p. 

558. 
Riot  in  Samoa  on  the  German  Emperor's 

birthday,  v.  19,  p.  418. 
Risingham,    Alicia,   friend    of   Joanna 

Sedley,  v.  8,  p.  200. 
Risingham,    Earl    of,     a    Lancastrian 

leader,  v.  8,  p.  226  ;  Death  of,  v.  8,  p. 

272. 
Rivers,  Intermittent,  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p. 

104  ;  Scotch,  Beauties  of,  v.  13,  p.  231. 
Road  of  Gratitude,  Gift  of  the,  to  Steven- 
son, V.  17,  p.  305  ;  Stevenson's  address 

on  receiving  the,  v.  17,  p.  316-322. 
Roads,  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  83-91. 
Robbie,  T.,  an  Edinburghi  lawyer,  friend 

of  Roraaine,  v.  21,  p.  314. 
Robie,  gardener  at  Swanston  Cottage, 

V.  21,  p.  76,  388,  481. 
Robinson  Crusoe,  Truth  of,  to  life,  v. 

13,  p.  338. 


662 


INDEX 


Rocky  Mountains,  Scenery  of,  v.  15,  p. 

128,  146. 
KoUes,  Simon,  the  young  man  in  holy 

orders,  v.  1,  p.  127. 
Romaine,  Daniel,  attorney  of  Count  de 

at.  Ives,  V.  21,  p.  39 ;  Meeting  of,  with 

St.  Ives  at  Ainersham  Place,  v.  21,  p. 

203 ;  In  Paris,  v.  21,  p.  467. 
Romance,  A  Gossip  on,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

327-343. 
Romance,  Human  craving  for,  v.  13,  p. 

164;  The  essential  quality  of,  v.  13, 

p.  338. 
Ronaldsay,  Orkney    Island,  Barbarity 

of  natives  of,  v.  18,  p.  245. 
Rorie,  a  servant  of  Gordon  Darnaway, 

v.  7,  p.  10. 
Rosa  quo  Locorum,    Essay,  v.   22,   p. 

436-445. 
Rosen,  Anna,  Countess  von,  mistress  of 

Gondremark,  v.  4,  p.  81. 
Rotoava,  metropolis  of  the  Paumotus, 

V.  19,  p.  162. 
Rowley,  George,  valet  to  St.  Ives,  v. 

21,  p.  187 ;  Retmion  of,  with  St.  Ives, 

V.  21,  p.  470. 
Royal  Sport  Nautique,  The,  Essay,  v. 

12,  p.  14-19. 
RuUion  Green,  Battle  of,  v.  14,  p.  390- 

394. 

Sailors,  Dialect  of,  v.  15,  p.  8 ;  off  Bell 

Rock,  Dissatisfaction  of,  v.  18,  p.  347. 
St.  Germain  de  Calberte,  a  C^veunes 

hamlet,  v.  12,  p.  268. 
St.  Giles's  Church,  Edinbtirgh,  v.  12,  p. 

297. 
St.  Ives,  a  story  of  a  French  prisoner  in 

England,  v.  21 ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p. 

210,  212,  242-246,   260,  299,   301,   324, 

334,  350. 
St.  Ives,  Count  de,  uncle  of  Anne  de 

St.  Ives,  V.  21,  p.  193. 
St.  Ives,  Alain,  Viscount  de,  cousin  of 

Anne  de  St.  Ives,  v.  21,  p.  215 ;  Meet- 
ing of,  with  Anne  at  the  Assembly 

Ball,  V.  21,  p.  382 ;  In  Paris,  v.  21,  p. 

457. 
St.  Ives,  Viscount  Anne  de,  a  French 

prisoner  in  England,  v.  21,  p.  1. 
Sdkuma-Shozan,   Yoshida's   teacher  in 

Dutch,  V.  14,  p.  154. 
Saluafata,  attacked  by  Mataafa,  v.  19, 

p.  501. 
Salvini,  Stevenson's  petition  to,  v.  18, 

p.  151. 
Salvini's  Macbeth,  Essay,  v.  22,  p.  205- 

211. 
Sambre  and  Oise  Canal,  The,  Essay,  v. 

12,  p.  53-58. 
Sambre  Canalised,  two  essays,  v.  12,  p. 

25-30,  42-47. 
Sambre,  Pont-sur-,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  31-41. 
Samoa,  History  of,   v.  19,   p.  375-391 ; 

Letters  to  English  papers,  v.  22,  p.  451- 


500 ;  Life  in,  v.  17  ;  v.  22,  p.  501-527 ; 
natives  of,  Manners  of,  v.  17,  p.  82; 
Love  of,  for  Stevenson,  v.  17,  p.  306 ; 
Political  troubles  in,  v.  17,  p.  70,  74 ; 
prison  in,  Visit  of  Stevenson  to  a,  v. 
17,  p.  269 ;  Seizure  of,  by  the  Ger- 
mans, V.  19,  p.  419. 

"Samoa  Times,"  Purchase  of,  v.  22,  p. 
467,  476. 

San  Francisco,  Adventures  of  Pinker- 
ton  and  Dodd  in,  v.  10,  p.  109 ;  De- 
scription of  the  City  Front,  v.  10,  p. 
141 ;  First  view  of,  v.  15,  p.  148. 

Sand,  George,  Adventure  of,  at  Laus- 
Bonne,  v.  22,  p.  187. 

Sang,  Capt.,  Captain  of  the  Rose,  v.  6, 
p.  235. 

Satirist,  The,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p.  1-4. 

Say  not  of  me  that  weakly  I  declined. 
Poem,  V.  16,  p.  152. 

Saying  of  the  Name,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 
p.  335. 

Scandal,  Ignominy  of  repeating,  v.  4,  p. 
428. 

Scotch  border  family.  A,  v.  20,  p.  64 ; 
dialect.  Glossary  of,  v.  20,  p.  163  ; 
Drove  roads,  v.  21,  p.  107  ;  rivers. 
Beauties  of,  v.  13,  p.  231 ;  Rebels  (nee 
Covenanters ;  Jacobites) ;  Supersti- 
tions, V.  12,  p.  304,  351 ;  V.  15,  p.  219  ; 
Tale  of  Tod  Lapraik,  v.  6,  p.  156 ;  v. 
7,  p.  1-68,  p.  127-141. 

Scotland,  in  the  18th  century,  v.  20,  p. 
173-269  ;  V.  5  ;  v.  6 ;  v.  9  ;  Difference 
of,  from  England,  v.  13,  p.  181 ;  Early 
19th  century,  v.  21 ;  Lighthouse  op- 
erations in,  V.  18,  p.  235,  241 ;  Race 
rivalry  in,  v.  13,  p.  181 ;  Similarity  of 
France  to,  v.  22,  p.  181-183. 

Scots  Abroad,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 
337-341. 

Scotsman's  Return  from  Abroad,  The, 
Poem,  V.  16,  p.  184. 

Scott,  James,  Death  of,  off  Bell  Rock, 
V.  18,  p.  319. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  Carelessness  of,  in  lit- 
erary style,  V.  13,  p.  341 ;  Comparison 
of,  with  Fielding,  v.  14,  p.  18;  In 
court,  V.  12,  p.  301 ;  Influence  of  sur- 
roundings on,  V.  12,  p.  304;  Literary 
progenitor  of  Hugo,  v.  14,  p.  24 ; 
Meeting  of  St.  Ives  witb,  v,  21,  p. 
108  ;  Stevenson's  early  love  for,  v.  22, 
p.  443  ;  The  king  of  romance,  v.  13,  p. 
340. 

Scottish  nomenclature.  Confusion  of, 
V.  18,  p.  201. 

Scrivener's  cramp,  Stevenson  suffers 
from,  V.  17,  p.  174. 

ScrjTnseour,  Francis,  illegitimate  son 
of  Gen.  Vandeleur,  v.  1,  p.  157. 

Scuddamore,  Silas  Q.,  a  young  Ameri- 
can in  Paris,  v.  1,  p.  42. 

Sculpture  in  Greyfriars'  graveyard,  v, 
12,  p.  312. 

663 


INDEX 

Sea,  English  love  of  the,  v.  13,  p.  111.  Sim,  a  Scotch  drover,  v.  21,  p.  101 ;  Re. 

See  also  Ocean.  lease  of,  from  prison,  v.  21,  p.  326. 

Sea  Fogs,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  385-391.  Sing    cleailier,  Muse,  or  evermore  be 

Sebright,     Lascelles,     Lieutenant     of  still.  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  144. 

H.  M.  S.  Tempest,  v.  10,  p.  310.  Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 

Seccombe,    Alpheus  Q.,  an   American  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  262. 

naval  captain,  v.  21,  p.  446.  Singing,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  12. 

Second  Cabin,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  1-9.  Singing  on  an  euiigiaut  train,  v.  15,  p. 

Secundra  Dass,  a  native  of  India,  friend  118. 

of  Ballantrae,  v.  9,  p.  169.  Sinking   Ship,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  p. 

Sedley,  Joanna,  ward  of  Sir  D.  Brack-  452-454. 

ley,  V.  8,  p.  26.  Siphano,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p.  118. 

Seeking  of  the  Name,  The,   Poem,  v.  Sire  de  Mal^troit's  Door,  v.  1,  p.  317- 

16,  p.  340.  344. 

Siguier,  Spirit,  a  Camisard  leader,  v.  Sisters,  Two  unforgiving,  v.  12,  p.  308. 

12,  p.  237.  Siteoni,  an  Hawaiian   sailor,  v.  19,  p. 

Selden,  a  retainer  of  Sir  Daniel  Brack-  417. 

ley,  v.  8,  p.  24.  Siva,  native   song  and  dance,  v.  17,  p. 

Self-confidence,  Endurance  o^v.l3,p.  17.  195. 

Self,  truth  to.  Ethical  value  of,  v.  22,  p.  Skeleton  Island,  Discovery  of  map  of, 

566.  V.  2,  p.  47  ;  Landing  of  the  Hispaniola 

Senfft  von  Pilsach,  Baron,  President  of  at,  v.  2,  p.  102. 

the  Municipal  Board,  Apia,  v.  22,  p.  Skelt,  Toy  dramas  of,  v.  13,  p.  311. 

455-470.  Skerryvore,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  147. 

Sensitive-plant  in  South  Sea  Islands,  v.  Skerryvore,  The  Parallel,  Poem^  v.  16, 

17,  p.  12,  15.  p.  148. 

Seraphina,    Princess  Amelia,   wife  of  Sketches,  v.  22,  p.  1-19. 

Otto,  V.  4,  p.  86.  Slander,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  472. 

Sermaise,  Duel  of,  with  Villon,  v.  14,  p.  Slave-trade,  a  play,  v.  20,  p.  335-395. 

177.  Slaying  of  Tdmat^a,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 

Servants  as  gentlemen,  v.  14,  p.  348.  p.  271. 

Sewall,  H.   M.,   American    Consul   in  Small  Testament,  early  poems  of  Villon, 

Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  23 ;  v.  19,  p.  433.  v.  14,  p.  171. 
Sex,  Influence  of,  v.  15,  p.  65.  Smeaton,  John,  Robert  Stevenson's  re- 
Sexes,  Diflference  between  the,  v.  13,  p.  gard  for,  v.  18,  p.  271 ;  The  pioneer  of 

24 ;  Talk  between,  v.  13,  p.  289.  engineering,  v.  18,  p.  212 ;   daughter 

Shairp,  Book  of,  on  Burns,  v.  14,  p.  46.  of,  Interest  of  the,  in  Bell  Rock,  v.  18, 

Sheepshanks,   Elshander,   an   amateur  p.  355. 

aeronaut,  v.  21,  p.  409.  Smeaton,   vessel    employed   in  opera- 

Shelton,    Richard,  a   ward   of   Sir   D.  tions  at  Bell  Rock,  v.  18,  p.  273 ; 

Brackley,  v.  8,  p.  2.  Takes  ballast  from  the  Bell  Rock,  v. 

Sh  epherd  s,  Life  of  the,  in  Scotland,  v.  13,  18,  p.  311. 

p.  231-240.  Smethurst,  an  innkeeper,  v.  22,  p.  74-82. 

Shogun,  Opposition  of,  to  the  Reforma-  Smith,  George,  a  robber,  v.  20,  p.  182. 

tion,  V.  14,  p.  161.  Smith,    Janet,    daughter    of    Thomas 

Shoreby,  Lord,  a  Lancastrian  noble,  v.  Smith,  v.  18,  p.  211. 

8,  p.  142  ;  Death  of,  v.  8,  p.  225.  Smith,  Jean,  daughter  of  Thomas  Smith, 

Shoreby-on-the-Till,     a       Lancastrian  v.  18,  p.  211 ;  Marriage  of,  to  Robert 

stronghold,  v.  8,  p.  139  ;  Battle  of,  v.  Stevenson,  v.  18,  p.  218.     See  aluo  Ste- 

8,  p.  260.  venson,  Jean  (her  stepmother). 

Shovels  of  Newton  Frencli,  a  projected  Smith,  Thomas,  stepfather  of  Robert 

story,  V.  17,  p.  46.  Stevenson,  v.  18,  p.  208. 

Shuan,  Mr.,  first  mate  of  the  Covenant,  Smollett,   Alexander,   Captain   of   the 

V.  5,  p.  59.  Hispaniola,  v.  2,  p.  66. 

Sick  Child,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  138.  Socialism,  Growth  of,  in  England,  v.  15, 

Sick  Man,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  42-52.  p.  52 ;  Possibility  of,  v.  22,  p.  288- 

SiCK  Man  and  the  Fireman,  The,  301. 

Fable,  v.  20,  p.  457.  Some  Aspects  of  Robert  Burns,  Essay, 

Sickness,  Benumbing  effects  of,  v.  13,  p.  v.  14,  p.  46-86. 

83  ;  Resemblance  of,  to  old  age,  v.  13,  Some  College  Memories,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  89.  p.  191-198. 

Silver,  John,  cook  on  the  Hispaniola,  v.  Some  Gentlemen  in  Fiction,  Essay,  v. 

2,  p.  55  ;  V.  20,  p.  447.  14,  p.  361-373. 

Silverado  Squatters,  essays  on  Call-  Some  Portraits  by  Raeburn,  Essay,  v.  13, 

fomia,  V.  15,  p.  315-428.  p.  126-135, 

664 


INDEX 


Somerset,  Paul,  an  impecunious  barris- 
ter, V.  3,  p.  1 ;  Adventures  of,  v.  3,  p. 

83-178,  245-256. 
Something  in  It,  a  fable  of  the  South 

Seas,  V.  20,  p.  480-483. 
Song  of  Rah^ro,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

271-303. 
Song  of  the  Morrow,  The,  Fable,  v.  20, 

p.  503-507. 
Song  of  the  Eoad,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  98. 
SoNas  OF  Travel,  and  Othke  Verses, 

V.  16,  p.  199-270. 
Sophia  Scarlet,  a  projected  story,  v. 

17,  p.  117. 
Soul,  Nature  of  the,  v.  22,  p.  655. 
Soulis,  £ev.  Murdoch,  the  parson  of 

Bal weary,  v.  7,  p.  127. 
Soutar,  mate  of  a  praam  boat  at  Bell 

Bock,  V.  18,  p.  239. 
South  Seas,  Life  in,  v.  11,  p.  223-399 ; 

V.  19 ;  V.  4,  p.  243-409 ;  v.  17  ;  v.  10; 

First  impressions  of  the,  v.  19,  p.  2. 
Spaewife,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  169. 
Speculative  Society,  Edinburgh,  v.  13,  p. 

215. 
Speedy,  a  workman,  debtor  to  Loudon, 

v.  10,  p.  133. 
Spencer,  H.,  Influence  of,  on  Whitman, 

v.  14,  p.  88. 
Spinsters'  ball  at  Apia,  v.  17,  p.  18a 
Spirited  Old  Lady,  Narrative  of  a,  v.  3,  p. 

90-122. 
Squire  of  Dames,  The,  v.  3,  p.  11-21. 
Stanislao  Moanatini,  son  of  Temoana, 

V.  19,  p.  80. 
Starry  Drive,  A,   Essay,  v.  15,  p.  398- 

402. 


V.  18,  p.  205 ;  Arrested  as  a  vagrant 
in  France,  v.  15,  p.  196 ;  Autobiogra- 
phy of,  V.  13,  p.  177-358 ;  V.  17 ;  As  an 
employer  of  labor,  v.  17,  p.  58 ;  De- 
sires of,  for  early  breakfast,  v.  17,  p. 
69;  Early  literary  experiences,  v.  2, 
p.  ix.;  V.  13,  p.  211,  215,  220 ;  Early  es- 
say of,  V.  13,  p.  223-230 ;  Life  of,  in 
California,  v.  15,  p.  315-428 ;  In  the 
South  Seas,  v.  17 ;  Interview  of,  with 
King  Laupepa,  v.  17,  p.  85 ;  Intimacy 
of,  with  Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  151 ;  Meth- 
ods of,  in  imaginative  work,  v.  20,  p. 
159 ;  mother  of.  Arrival  of,  in  Samoa, 
V.  17,  p.  62;  Participation  of,  in  Sa- 
moan  politics,  v.  17,  p.  xiv.,  71 ;  Per- 
sonality of,  V.  17,  p.  vii.-xv. ;  Quarrel 
of,  with  Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  162 ;  Recon- 
ciliation of,  with  German  consulate  in 
Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  132 ;  Sickness  of,  at 
Honolulu,  V.  17,  p.  267 ;  Tabooed  by 
German  consulate,  v.,17,jp.91 ;  Threat- 
ened with  deportation  from  Samoa,  v. 
17,  p.  165 ;  Trips  of,  to  Sydney,  v.  17, 
p.  42,  214  ;  Weighing  coins  for  accu- 
racy  in  The  Wrecker,  v.  17,  p.  87 ; 
Workmen  of,  in  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  7,  58, 
99,  130,  270. 

Stevenson,  Mrs.  Robert  Louis,  Life  of, 
in  the  South  Seas,  v.  17  ;  Joint  author, 
V.3. 

Stevenson,  Robert,  v.  13,  p.  258-264. 

Stewart,  Alan  Breck,  a  Highland  Jaco- 
bite, V.  5,  p.  65 ;  Flight  of,  from  the 
Highlands,  v.  6,  p.  150;  Escape  of, 
from  Scotland,  v.  6,  p.  137  ;  Reunion  of, 
with  Balfour  in  Leyden,  v.  6,  p.  326 ; 
Meeting  of,  with  Ballantrae,  v.  9,  p. 


Stealing,  True  nature  of,  v.  22,  p.  541- 

550.  36. 

Steerage  Scenes,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  20-28.  Stewart,  Charles,   attorney  for  James 

Steerage  Types,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  29-41.  Stewart,  v.  6,  p.  13  ;  Political  schemes 

Steiermark,  Fleeming  Jenkin  visits,  v.  of,  at  the  trial  of  James,  v.  6,  p.  181. 

18,  p.  147.  Stewart,  James,  a  Jacobite,  v.  5,  p.  161. 

Stevenson,  Meaning  of  the  name,  v.  18,  Stewart,  Margaret,  second  wife  of  Knox, 

p.  202.  V.  14,  p.  321. 

Stevenson,  Alan,  great-grandfather  of  Storms,  oflf  the  Bell  Rock,  v.  18,  p.  293, 

Robert  Louis,  v.  18,  p.  205.  323,  332  ;  In  Samoa,  v.  17,  p.  32,  110  ; 

Stevenson,  Jean,  great-grandmother  of  v.  19,  p.  543. 

Robert  Louis,  v.  18,  p.  206 ;  Second  Stowaways,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  53-68. 

marriage  of,  v.  18,  p.  211.    See  also  Strange  Case  op  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr, 

Smith,  Jean  (her  stepdaughter).  Hyde,  a  tale  of  dual  personality,  v.  7, 

Stevenson,  John,  a  Covenanter,  v.  18,  p.  p.  281-372. 

_  198.  Strike  at  Fairbaim's  works,  v.  18,  p.  52. 

Stevenson,  Robert,  grandfather  of  Rob-  Strikes,  Causes  of,  v.  15,  p.  51. 

ert  Louis,  v.  13,  p.  242  ;  v.  18,  p.  206;  Strong,  Austin,  v.  17,  p.  191,  286 ;  Letters 


,  V.  13,  p 
Marriage  of,  to  Jean  Smith,  v.  18,  p. 
218 ;  Letters  of,  to  his  family,  v.  18,  p. 
223-230;  Services  of,  under  the  Board 
of  Northern  Lights,  v.  18,  p.  232;  Re- 
lations of,  to  Lighthouse-keepers,  v. 
18,  p.  252-260;  Love  of  the  pictur- 
esque in,  V.  18,  p.  266  ;  Account  of,  of 
building  of  the  Bell  Rock  Light,  v.  18, 
p.  275-366. 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  Ancestry  of.    Student  life,  v.  22,  p'.  22-56 

663 


to,  V.  22,  p.  512-527. 
Strong,  Mrs.  Isobel,    stepdaughter   of 

Stevenson,  v.  17. 
Strong,  J.   D.,    American   artist   with 

Hawaiian  Embassy,  v.  19,  p.  415 ;  One 

of  the  Silverado  squatters,  v.  15,  p. 

399. 
Stubbs,  Mr.,  an  Englishman  on  a  walk* 

ing  tour  in  France,  v.  1,  p.  369. 


INDEX 


Study,  Danger  of  too  constant,  ▼.  13,  p.  Tari  CoflBn,  native  of  Oahu,  ▼.  19,  p.  2a 

197.  Tarleton,  Mr.,  a  missionai-y,  v.  i,  p.  286. 

Stuebel,  Dr.,  German  Consul  in  Samoa,  Tarn,  In  the  Valley  of  the,  Essay,  v.  12, 

V.  19,  p.  403,  555.  p.  241-251. 

Style  in  Literature,  On  Some  Technical  Tarquair,  Ninian,  a  Covenanter,  v.  22,  p. 

Elements  of,  v.  22,  p.  243-265.  400,  405. 

Submarine  cables.  See  Telegraph  Cables.  Taxes,  Difficulties  over,  in  Samoa,  v.  22, 

Suicide,  among  the  Marquesans,  v.  19,  p.  p.  463-472. 

32  ;  Difficulty  of  committing,  v.  11,  p.  Te  Kop,  a  native  dancer  in  Apemama, 

V.  19,  p.  343. 


Suicide  Club,  The,  v.  1,  p.  3-101. 


Teach,  Capt.,  a  pirate,  v.  9,  p.  40. 


Sunday,  at  Eairaid,  v.  13,  p.  253 ;    On    Tebureimoa,  King  of  Butaritari,  v.  19, 


board  ship,  v.  15,  p.  18 ;  In  Butaritari, 

V.  19,  p.  246  ;  In  Edinburgh,  v.  21,  p. 

315-323;    Work   on,    on    Bell    Rock 

Light,  v.  18,  p.  283. 
Sun's  Travels,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  31. 
Simset  in  Samoa,  Description  of,  v.  17, 

p.  136. 
Superfluous  Mansion,  The,  v.  3,  p.  83- 

178,  245-256. 
Superstition,  denounced  in  Notre  Dame, 

v.  14,  p.  27  ;  In  Apemama,  v.  19,  p.  350 ; 

In  the  Orkney  Islands,  v.  18,  p.  245-249; 


p.  226  ;  Nicknamed  Mr.  Corpse,  v.  19, 
p.  234;  Fourth  of  July  celebrated  by,  v. 
19,  p.  250  ;  Visit  of,  to  Stevenson,  v.  19, 
p.  277. 

Technical  Elements  of  Style  in  Litera- 
ture, V.  22,  p.  243-265. 

Telegraph  cables,  dredging  for,  Method 
of,  V.  18,  p.  108  ;  Encrusted  in  coral,  v. 
18,  p.  107  ;  Jenkin's  work  laying,  v.  18, 
p.  84-135 ;  Kinks  in,  v.  18,  p.  109 ; 
Machines  for  laying,  v.  18,  p.  86  ;  tak- 
ing up,  Methods  of,  v.  18,  p.  95. 


In  Paumotus,  v.  19,  p.  192, 198,  200 ;  In  Telpherage,    Jenkin's  invention  of,  v. 

Polynesia,  v.  19,  p.  35,  54  ;  In  Samoa,  18,  p.  187. 

v.  17,  p.  34,  36,  172 ;  v.  22,  p.  504-511,  Tembinatake,  uncle  of  Tembinok',  v.  19, 

524  ;  Scotch,  v.  6,  p.  156 ;  v.  7,  p.  1-68,  p.  365. 

127-141 ;  V.  12,  p.  304,  351 ;  The  House  Tembinok',  King  of  Apemama,  v.  19,  p. 

-   ■■      —-  299-368. 


of  tlie  Eld,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  463-470 

See  also  Hoodoo ;  Taboo. 
Surname  of  Stevenson,  Essay,  v.  18,  p. 

195-204. 
Susquehanna  River,  Beauties  of,  v.  15, 

p.  105. 
Swanston    Cottage,    the   home   of   the 

Gilchrists,  v.  21,  p.  75,  301,  354,  480. 
Swanston,  History  of,  v.  12,  p.  353. 
Swing,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  35. 
Sydney,  Adventures  of  Norris  Carthew 

in,  V.  10,  p.  392  ;  Trips  of  Stevenson  to, 

V.  17,  p.  42,  214. 
Syra,  Description  of,  v.  18,  p.  112. 
System,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  20. 

Taahauku,  Description  of,  v.  19,  p.  108. 
Tabary,  Guy,  companion  of  Villon,  v.  1, 

p.  289 ;  V.  14,  p.  180,  187. 
Taboo,  V.  4.  p.  243-339  ;  Against  liquor, 

V.  19,  p.  250,  269  ;  On  Equator  Town, 


Temoana,  King  of  the  Marquesas,  v.  19, 

p.  77. 
Temptation,  Cowardice  of  avoiding,  v.  13, 

p.  26. 
Tenement-houses  in  Edinburgh,  v.  12,  p. 

289-296. 
Tentaillon,  Mme.,  a  French  innkeeper, 

V.  7,  p.  199. 
Terutak',  a  medicine-man  in  Apemama, 

V.  19,  p.  353-361. 
Thackeray,  Wm.  M.,  Gentlemen  char- 
acters of,  V.  14,  p.  372. 
The  infinite  shining  heavens,  Poem,  v. 

16,  p.  205. 
The  morning  drum-call  on  my  eager  ear. 

Poem,  V.  16,  p.  223. 
The  tropics  vanish,  and  meseems  that  I, 

Poem,  V.  16,  p.  243. 
Theatre,  toy,  Joys  of  the,  v,  13,  p.  308. 
Theft,  True  nature  of,  v.  22,  p.  541-550. 


V.  19,  p.  316 ;  Stevenson  protected  by,    Their  Laureate  to   an  Academy  Class 


V.  19,  p.  260 ;  Uses  of,  in  Polynesia,  v 

19,  p.  50-56. 
Tadpole,  The,  and  the  Frog,  Fable,  v. 

20,  p.  479. 
Tai-o-hae,  capital  of  Nuka-hiva,  v.  19, 

p.  67. 
Taipi-Kikino,  native  chief,  v.  19,  p.  6,  47.    Through  the  Golden  Valleyj 
Talk  and  Talkers,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  265-       12,  p.  93-95. 

292.  Ticonderoga,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  335-345. 

Tamasese,  King  of  Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  408,    Time  to  Rise,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  36. 


Dinner  Club,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  178. 

Thomson,  Sir  William,  Friendship  of 
Jenkin  for,  v.  18,  p.  68. 

Thought,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  2. 

Thrawn  Janet,  a  tale  of  Scotch  super- 
stition, v.  7,  p.  127-141. 

V. 


421,  446,  448,  456,  471 ;  v.  22,  p.  487,  491. 
Taniera  Mahinui,  catechist  and  convict, 

v.  19,  p.  172. 
•'Tapping,"  The  trade  of,  v.  15,  p.  78. 


To ,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  221. 

To  a  Gardener,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  107. 

To  an  Inland  Princess,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 


666 


INDEX 


To  Andrew  Lang,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  117. 

To  any  Reader,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  87. 

To  Auntie,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  81. 

To  Compi6gne,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  101-103. 

To  Dr.  Hake,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  220. 

To  Dr.  John  Brown,  Poem,  v.    16,  p. 

193. 
To  JF.*  J.  S.,  Poem^  v.  16,  p.  128. 
To  H.  F.  Brown,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  116. 
To  K.  De  M.,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  110. 
To  Kalakaua,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  234. 
To  Minnie,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  82,  109. 
_       -  -         p, 


oem,  V.  16,  p. 


To  Mrs.  Will  H.  Low, 

114. 
To  Mother  Maryanne,  Poem^  v.  16,  p. 

236. 
To  Moy,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  81-86. 
To  My  Father,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  140. 
To  My  Mother,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  80. 
To  My  Name-Child,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  85. 
To  My  Old  Familiars,  Poem^  v.  16,  p. 

241. 
To  My  Wife,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  238. 
To  N.  V.  De  G.  S.,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  111. 
To  Princess  Kaiulani,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

235. 
To  S.  C,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  245. 
To  S.  R.  Crockett,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  264. 


VENNES,  fire  essays,  v.  12,   p.  143- 

277  ;  Proposed  opening  chapter  of,  v. 

22,  p.  177-190. 
Teeasurk  Island,  a  tale  of  pirates,  v. 

2  ;  Writing  of,  v.  2,  p.  ix.-xx.;  Failure 

of,  to  please  readers,  v.  8,  Dedication. 

See  also  Persons  of  the  Tale,  v.  20,  p. 

447-451. 
Treasure  of  Franchard,  The,  a  tale 

of  the  French  provinces,  v.  7,  p.  199- 

278. 
Tr61at,     Emile,   Letter  of,   concerning^ 

Jenkin,  v.  18,  p.  173-176. 
Trelawney,  John,  a  friend  of  Dr.  Livesey, 

V.  2,  p.  43. 
Trent,  Jacob,  Captain  of  the   Flyinff- 

Scud,  V.  10,  p.  447. 
Tropic  Rain,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  257. 
Trunk,  Saratoga,  Story  of,  v.  1,  p.  42-75. 
Truth  of  Intercourse,  Essay,  v.  13,  p. 

40-50. 
Tui-ma-le-alii-fano,  Visit  of,  to  the  Chief 

Justice,  V.  17,  p.  279. 
Tuitui  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  v.  17, 

p.  12,  15. 
Tunbridge-Wells,    in    the    early    19th 

century,  v.  20,  p.  275-329. 
Tunstall  hamlet,  v.  8,  p.  1. 


To  the  Golden  Gates,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.     Tupuas,  War  of  the,  v.  22,  p.  487. 


143-148. 
To  the  Muse,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  240. 


Turner,  Sir  James,  leader  of  the  perse- 
cutors, V.  14,  p.  379-385. 


To  the  Pentland  Hills,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.    Tusitala,  a  title  addressed  to  Stevenson, 


348-358, 

To  W.  E.  Henley,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  122. 
To  Will  H.  Low,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  172. 


V.  17,  p.  108-306. 
Twenty  Captains,  The,  by  Hayward,  v. 
14,  p.  331. 


To  Willie  and  Henrietta,  Poem^  v.  16,    Two  Matches,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  455, 

p.  79.  456. 

To  you,  let  snow  and  roses,  Poem^  v. 


16,  p.  208. 
Todd,  John,  a  shepherd,  v.  13,  p.  233. 
Toils  and  Pleasures,   Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

415-428. 
Toll  House,  The,  Essay,  v.  15,  p.  392- 

397. 
Tontine,  v.  11,  p.  1-219. 


Ulufanua,  Meaning  of,  v.  17,  p.  72. 
Uma,  native  wife  of  Wiltshire,  v.  4,  p* 

248. 
Umbrellas,  The  Philosophy  of,  Essay, 

V.  22,  p.  46-51. 
Underwoods,  ninety  poems,  v.  16,  p. 

97-265. 


Torrance,  Rev.,  minister  near  Hermis-    Unforgotten,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  203. 


ton,  V.  20,  p.  84. 


United  States.     See  America. 


Touchstone,  The,  Fable,  v.  20,  p.  487-  Universities,  Scotch  and  English,  Y.  13, 

495.  p.  186. 

Toy  theatres,  v.  13,  p.  306.  Unpleasant  places.  Enjoyment  of,  v.  22, 

Traders  and  their  wives  in  Butaritari,  v,  p.  98-108. 

19,  p.  288.  Unseen  Playmate,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

Tramps,  in  the  South  Sea  Islands,  v.  11,  49. 

p.  224-269  ;  On  American  railroads,  v.  Upper    Gfevaudan,    two  essays,  r.    12, 

15,  p.   145.    See  also  Beggars  ;  Stow-  _p.  171-187,  215-224. 


aways. 
Trappist  monastery,  v.  12,  p.  194. 
Travailleurs  de  la  Mer,  Les,  by  Hugo, 

V.  14,  p.  33. 
Travel,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  10. 
Traveller,  The  Citizen  and  the.  Fable,    Vaea  Mountain,  Stevenson's  home,  v. 


Urquart,  Dr.,  Surgeon  of  H.  M.  S.  Tem- 
pest, V.  10,  p.  313. 

Utterson,  G.  J.,  Dr.  Jekyll's  lawyer,  v. 
7,  p.  281. 


v.  20,  p.  475. 


17,  p.  1. 


Travelling  Merchant,  The,  Essay,  v.  12,    Vaea  River,  Description  of,  v.  17,  p.  102. 
p.  37-41.  Vaekehu,  wife  of  Temoana,  v.  19,  p.  77. 

Travels  with  a  Donkey  m  the  C£.    Vagabond,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  199. 

667 


INDEX 


Vailima  Letters,  v.  17;  Instructions 

to  Colvin  regarding,  v.  17,  p.  63. 
Vaituliga,  a  Samoan   stream,  Descrip- 
tion of,  V.  17,  p.  5,  29. 
Valdevia,  Theresa,  assumed    name  of 

Clara  Luxmore,  v.  3,  p.  180-229. 
Valentina  of  Milan,  mother  of  Charles 

of  Orleans,  v.  14,  p.  202. 
Vallejo,  California,  Description  of,  v.  15, 

p.  316. 
Van  de  Grift,  Fanny.    See  Stevenson, 

Mrs.  R.  L. 
Van  Tromp,  Esther,  daughter  of  Peter, 

V.  3,  p.  287. 
Van    Tromp,    Peter,    an    artist    and 

"  sponge,"  V.  3,  p.  272. 
Vandeleur,  John,  brother  of  Gen.  Van- 

deleur,  v.  1,  p.  146  ;  Steals  the  Rajah's 

diamond,  v.  1,  p.  179. 
Vandeleur,  Gen.  Sir  Thomas,  owner  of 

the  Rajah's  diamond,  v.  1,  p.  106. 
Vandeleur,  Lady,  v.  1,  p.  107. 
Vandeleur,  Miss,  daughter  of  John,  v. 

1,  p.  170. 
Vanity,  Decay  of,  from  experience,  v. 

13,  p.  207 ;  Of  dogs,  V.  13,  p.  294 ;  Of 

youth,  V.  13,  p.  205. 
Vausselles,  Catherine  de,  friend  of  Vil- 
lon, V.  14,  p.  172. 
Vauversin,  M.  de,  a  mountebank,  v.  12, 

p.  129. 
Velay,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  143-167. 
Venging  of  T6mat6a,  The,  Poem,  v.  16, 

p.  281. 
Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  by  A.  Dumas, 

V.  13,  p.  315-326. 
Vigitantes  of  San  Francisco,  v.  10,  p. 

142  ;  In  California,  v.  15,  p.  165. 
Villa   Quarters,  The,    Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

329-331. 
Village  Communities  of  Painters,  Es- 
say, V.  15,  p.  169-19L 
Villon,    FrauQois,    Student,    Poet,  and 

Housebreaker,  Essay,  v.   14,  p.  166- 

200 ;  V.  1,  p.  287. 
Villon,  Guillaume  de,  adopted  father  of 

Francois,  v.  14,  p.  170. 
Villon  and  the  Gallows,  Essay,  v.  14,  p. 

188-193. 
ViRGiNiBUS   PUERISQUE,  four    essays, 

V.  13,  p.  3-50. 
Visit  from  the  Sea,  A,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

106. 
Vivarais,  Description  of,  v.  12,  p.  191. 

Walden,  a  refuge  for  slaves,  v.  14,  p.  10. 

Walker,  Patrick,  on  the  burial  of  mar- 
tyrs, V.  12,  p.  318. 

Walking  Tours,  Essay,  v.  13,  p.  150-159. 

Wallace,  Col.,  leader  of  the  rebel  cav- 
alry, V.  14,  p.  391. 

Wandering  Willie,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  218. 

War  in  Samoa,  Threatenings  of,  v.  17, 
p.  243 ;  Commencement  of,  v.  17,  p. 
249 ;  Declaration  of,  v.  17,  p.  279. 


War  of  the  Roses,  v.  8. 

Watt,  Jean,  mistress  of  Brodie,  v.  20, 
p.  182. 

We  are  Pedlars,  Essay,  v.  12,  p.  31-36. 

We  have  Loved  of  Yore,  Poem,  v.  16, 
p.  212. 

We  uncommiserate  pass  into  the  night, 
Poem,  V.  16,  p.  260. 

Wealth,  Popular  worship  of,  v.  22,  p. 
572 ;  Responsibility  of,  v.  22,  p.  577. 

Weber,  Theodor,  a  German  trader  in 
Samoa,  v.  19,  p.  397. 

Weir,  Adam,  Lord  Hermiston.  See 
Hermiston,  Lord. 

Weir,  Archie,  son  of  Lord  Hermiston, 
v.  20,  p.  7  ;  Return  of,  to  Hermiston, 
v.  20,  p.  56  ;  Quarrel  of,  with  Chris- 
tina, v.  20,  p.  145. 

Weir,  Major,  father  of  myths,  v.  12,  p. 
307. 

Weir  of  Hermiston,  a  story  of  Scot- 
land in  early  19th  century,  v.  20; 
Criticism  of,  v.  20,  p.  154  ;  Writing  of, 
V.  17,  p.  199,  257,  281. 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  a  typical  gentle- 
man, V.  14,  p.  354. 

Wendover,  Description  of,  v.  22,  p.  121- 
132. 

When  aince  AprUe  has  fairly  come. 
Poem,  v.  16,  p.  160. 

Where  go  the  Boats,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  15. 

Whistlers,  a  sect  in  Paumotus,  v.  19,  p. 
189. 

White,  Grant,  Ignorance  of,  of  America, 
V.  13,  p.  179. 

Whitman,  Walt,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  87- 
115  ;  Exaggeration  in  writings  about, 
v.  14,  p.  8. 

Whole  Duty  of  Children,  Poem,  v.  16, 

Wickham,   Mr.,    a    client   of   Michael 

Finsbury,  v.  11,  p.  48. 
Wicks,  Joe,  a  South  Sea  captain,  alias 

Capt.  Trent,  v.  10,  p.  153,  406. 
Wild  Youth,  A,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  168-179. 
Will  o'  the  Mill,  a  tale  of  a  German 

innkeeper,  v.  7,  p.  69-103. 
Willebroek  Canal,  On  the.  Essay,  v.  12, 

p.  8-13. 
Willet,  Miss,  Pepys's  mistress,  v.  14,  p. 

270. 
Wiltshire,  John,  a  South  Sea  trader,  v. 

4,  p.  243. 
Wind,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  26. 
Windy  Nights,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  9. 
Winter  and  New  Year,  Essay,  v.  12,  p. 

340-347. 
Winter-Time,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  41. 
Winter's  Walk,  A,  in  Carrick  and  Gal- 
loway, Fragment,  v.  22,  p.  134-145. 
Wishart,  Michael,  Accident  to,  on  Bell 

Rock,  v.  18,  p.  328. 
Woman's  rule,  Anomaly  of,  v.  14,  p.  275. 
Women,  bad  debaters,  v.   13,  p.  291; 

Attention  bestowed  by,  on  all  men. 


668 


INDEX 


V.  15,  p.  70 ;  Make  good  listeners,  v. 

13,  p.  286 ;  Position  of,  in  tlie  Gilbert 

Islands,  v.  19,  p.  287-295;  Raeburns 

portraits  of,  v.  13,  p.  134 ;  Relations 

of  John  Knox  to,  v.  14,  p.  272-325; 

Subjection  of,  v.  13,  p.  291. 
Woodman,  The,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  252. 
Woods  and  the  Pacific,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

149-157. 
Woods  in  Spring,  The,  Sketch,  v.  22,  p. 

166-171.    See  also  Forests. 
Words,  Inadequacy  of,  v.  14,  p.  92 ;  v. 

22,  p.  531-551 ;   written,  Rigidity  of, 

V.  13,  p.  265. 
Workhigmen,  Conversational  powers  of, 

V.  15,  p.  79 ;   English,  Prosperity  of, 

V.  15,  p.  51  ;  Selfishness  of,  v.  15,  p.  47. 
Works,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  79-86. 
Wreath  of  Immortelles,  The,  Sketch,  v. 

22,  p.  8-13. 
Wrecker,  The,  a  story  of  adventure  in 

the  South  Seas,  v.  10 ;  Writing  of,  v. 

17,  p.  67,  87,  90. 
Wrong  Box,  a  story  of  a  tontine,  v.  11, 

p.  1-219. 
Wurmbrand,  Capt,,  Governor  of  a  Sa- 

moan  prison,  v.  17,  p.  269. 
Wyoming,  Desert  of,  Essay,  v.  15,  p. 

128-134. 


Yellow  Paint,  The,  a  fable  of  quackery, 

V.  20,  p.  460-462. 
York,  The,  Foundering  of,  on  Bell  Rock, 

V.  18,  p.  269. 
Yoshida-Torajiro,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  150- 

165. 
Young    Chevalier,    The,  Fragment, 

V.  22,  p.  373-393 ;  Writing  of,  v.  17,  p. 

124,  146,  149,  164-166, 
Young  Man  in  Holy  Orders,  Story  of 

the,  V.  1,  p.  137-156. 
Young  Night  Thought,  Poem,  v.  16,  p. 

4. 
Youth,  Essay,  v.  14,  p.  48-57. 
Youth  and  Love,  Poem,  v.  16,  p.  201. 
Youth,  Crabbed  Age  and,  Essay,  v.  13, 

p.  51-66. 
Youth,  Follies  of,  v.  13,  p.  63  ;  Morbid 

imaginings  of,  v.  13,  p.  200 ;  Should 

be  enjoyed  while  it  lasts,  v.  13,  p. 

60 ;  Vanity  of,  v.  13,  p.  205. 

Zembsch,  Capt.,  German  Consul  at  Sa- 
moa, V.  19,  p.  398. 

Zephyrine,  Mme.,  a  Parisienne,  v.  1,  p. 
42. 

Zero,  the  head  of  the  Fenians,  v.  3,  p. 
135 ;  Tale  of  the  Explosive  Bomb,  v. 
3,  p.  166-166 ;  Death  of,  v.  3,  p.  266. 


669 


